


Respiration and Inspiration

by MajorAccent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Poetry, Protected Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your dad’s the fucking sheriff of my hometown,” Derek hisses when Stiles is pretending to search through the expiration dates on the cartons of 1%. “When were you going to tell me that?”</p><p>“Uhm,” Stiles stalls, closing the glass-paned door. “Never?” He ventures. Seeing the hard placed scowl on Derek’s face, Stiles knows it’s not what he wanted to hear. “How was I supposed to bring it up?” He asks, voice pitching on hysterical in the middle before he forces it back down. “Right around the first time I was sparking up, just lean over and go, “Oh, hey, by the fucking way, I’m from Beacon Hills and my dad’s the sheriff, but he doesn’t know I do recreational drugs on the weekly,” and then recite Millay to you? Yeah, because that’d work out so goddamn well.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. High and Live and Diving

**Author's Note:**

> I believe I started writing this before season three even got a release date, which is why Jackson's still around, every character introduced onward are not mentioned, and Erica and Boyd are totally alive.
> 
> Getting this to a point of being able to post it has been a rigamarole of busted hard-drives and frustration. And hey, I made [an accompanying playlist](http://pacificrimmers.tumblr.com/post/49701508306/ooo-respiration-inspiration-the-accompanying) one night under the guise of being productive when I was dealing with that frustration.
> 
> Special thanks to [Julie](http://writingcalmsthemind.tumblr.com/), for editing this even though she forgot her laptop charger and had to do it from her phone.
> 
> Title comes from Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself."
> 
> ***ETA: The whole crux of this fic is built on the fact that this is a stoner!AU, which means people are getting high and drinking, and all of the sexual content is done under non-sober conditions. Which is why this fic is tagged with dub-con. It's usually discussed between the parties after it happens, but if this is something that bothers you then do not read this fic.

Derek watches from the floor as Stiles’ thumb rasps against metal and the lighter flickers alive, lighting his face in warm orange as he inhales. He plucks the glass out of his mouth, drawing in another mouthful of air, chest full as he holds his breath.  
  
His arm drops down, elbow propped as he holds out his lighter, decorated with funky lines and blue robots. Derek snorts, but takes it as he sits up and circles the flame around the glass bowl of his spoon, Stiles’ one-shooter still upright in his hand.  
  
He exhales when Stiles is whining for his lighter back, fingers curling and uncurling in the air vaguely. “Ash hit, man,” he says around glass. “One more and I have to take off.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes into the spine of his book as he listens to some girl analyze the prose entirely wrong. Last night’s reading assigned Andrea Gibson’s “Birthday,” a long-form prose transcribed from her spoken-word performance that Stiles read at least three times last night and another two this morning. At the mention of smoke rings all he can imagine is making a bowing O with his lips, jaw bouncing with muscle memory.  
  
“Because, like, the soldier is poised to kill and do it well,” she’s explaining lines 18 and 19. “I mean, there’s no hesitation there.”  
  
He watches Professor Morrell give a miniscule smile that he’s labeled as “No, that’s wrong, but points for trying.” He keeps his head down, rereading Gibson’s final stanza. The last time he snorted and mouthed off to correct someone he ended up having to give an oral report on the breakdown and history surrounding Laux at the time she published “This Close.” It was great for Stiles’ GPA, but he never wants to do it again.  
  
Her eyes scan across the lecture hall, trying to find another volunteer before she begins with the author’s life. “We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe,” she recites with a practiced cadence before she reaches for her marker to write on the board.  
  
He highlights “Beauty, catch me on your tongue. / Thunder, clap us open.” and scribbles about water allusions and whoever Jen was in the margins.  
  
—  
  
After a few hits, Stiles stops talking about the dingy smoke stains on Derek’s ceiling and starts opining poems he’s memorized over the course of his ENGL-124 class, sometimes dipping into its original language with pronunciation that sound perfected.  
  
“Your eyes are blue like the morning of going,” he whispers, his own closed. “Your ears tender twists of logic. Your thighs, are impossible avenues my car swerves out of control on.” His toes are curling against the coffee table, stretching his legs out before he’s curving back in on himself again with a blissed out quirk of a smile.  
  
He sighs before continuing, “I want to cut the silence with your shoulder blades, blow moon-shaped kisses to orbit your skull.” The sun casts shadows over half his face, song switching over to play some low acoustic guitar. “As you sleep on the highest ledge of my insomnia.”  
  
Derek hesitates, wants to tell Stiles not to fall asleep on his thread-bared couch again, but the planes of his face are calm and his limbs finally look like they’ve stopped trying to twitch off his body. He reaches out, tugging the lighter out of Stiles’ reach without a fight. “Keep going,” he prompts, taking the piece too.  
  
Stiles hums, the easy smile never leaving his face. “But I’m just a broken promise in a pawn shop,” he says and sags against the cushions. “And this is just a secret that happens to involve you.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles wakes up an hour and a half later, high gone and the apartment empty aside from a post-it stuck to his now silent phone on the end table.  
  
—  
  
Scott’s frowning at him when he gets back to the dorm.  
  
“Have… Fun?” He asks, raising a brow at Stiles' wrinkled clothes.  
  
“No more than the usual.” Stiles answers with a wide grin, teasing Scott just enough to make him visibly uncomfortable. “I fell asleep,” he mutters. “On the couch,” he follows up, opening his backpack for his textbook. “He was gone when I woke up.”  
  
Scott shrugs, but thankfully drops it.  
  
—  
  
“Who’s your favorite?” Derek asks as Stiles scrambles to change the song on his ipod as soon as he recognizes the droning _“follow me, a sea of silhouettes, by your mother and your father’s bed.”_  
  
“What?” Stiles asks in return, still tapping his thumb before he settles on a song by We Are Scientists.  
  
“Your favorite poet,” Derek explains. “I think I’ve heard you say some stuff by Auden, but…” He trails off, frowning vaguely at the coffee table.  
  
Stiles hums, shrugging. “Yeah, Auden’s whole: “Where the beggars raffle the banknotes, and the Giant is enchanting to Jack, and the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer, and Jill goes down on her back.” He snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “Buddy Wakefield, usually. Even though he does spoken word.” He answers after thinking about it enough that Derek’s knee butts up against his thigh as a reminder. “But Megan Falley’s clock poem really won me over this morning.” He flicks his eyes to his backpack, where his literature textbook is, written all over in his messy scrawl—the buyback price diminishing with every pen stroke.  
  
Derek’s loading up another bowl and Stiles looks down to the ash still clinging to the resin in his. “A poem about clocks?” He asks incredulously on a slow-burning exhale.  
  
“The love affair between the hour and minute hand,” Stiles explains and pushes his index finger down to his flower-shaped screen. He brings it up, blowing out before he thumbs the carb and draws deep. His lips quirk up and press harder together, trying to contain the smoke as he smothers his giggling and exhales. “At 4:20 we pull a little from the tight joint behind your ear. You do not inhale,” he quotes and ends up laughing again, Derek’s quiet and amused chuffing joining in.  
  
Derek peels himself off the couch, padding to his kitchen for a drink. “Don’t fall asleep,” he cautions over the sound of the running tap.  
  
“Keep me talking,” Stiles calls back, hiking his knees up and stretching his legs to rest on the coffee table. “Or don’t give me indica.”  
  
The pipes make a succinct thump as Derek cuts off the water, leaning against the sink as he drinks in mouthfuls from the glass. “So recite,” he shrugs as he finishes half.  
  
Stiles stares off, unwilling to point out the fact he still fell asleep last time after finishing Jeffery McDaniels. “Hermann wants to eat nicotine sometimes,” he begins. “He asks for a lot. He paces space to make himself nervous, because some people are better at surviving than living.”  
  
—  
  
It’s Friday and Danny’s hand clasps on to Stiles’ forearm outside the student union’s Starbucks. “Please,” he pleads. “He only sells to you, please get me some?”  
  
Stiles laughs, shaking his head. “No,” he answers. “He doesn’t sell me anything.”  
  
Derek used to, though.  
  
Charged Stiles more than half his guy back home did. Stiles didn’t pry about where the supply was coming from, zero evidence of potted plants dotting the windows or UV lamps cramming his sockets, but he was close and let Stiles smoke in his apartment after he heard that Stiles was there on scholarship.  
  
“They’ll kick you out if they catch you with it,” he said, watching the scale balance out to fifteen bones.  
  
Stiles nods, full body moving. “I know,” he answered. “But, I write better essays while I’m, y’know, sailing. It kicks my Adderall dependence to the back seat and lets me think.”  
  
Derek chuckled, shaking his head, and only charged him ten.  
  
—  
  
“I need a dime bag,” he says, sitting barefooted on the floor and resting his chin on the coffee table.  
  
Derek stops, grinder still in his palm. “What for?” He asks, taking its top off and pinching it into his clear green bowl and Stiles’ solid bone white.  
  
Stiles hums, shrugging. “A party tomorrow,” he answers. “Danny wants it.” He tosses his cherry colored lighter across the cheap IKEA paneling, letting Derek have first dibs.  
  
“You going?” He asks on an exhaling wheeze, watching Stiles’ whiskey-dyed eyes blink as he holds his breath and shakes his head.  
  
“I wasn’t planning on going,” he admits quietly. “Especially if they’re toking.” At Derek’s questioning look he shakes his head. “They hate when I start up,” he says. “Reciting Pastan or Siken or fuck all.” He pokes his finger in to his pipe’s bowl, pressing the black ash down into its resin. “Say I get too preachy with it.”  
  
Derek shrugs. “No,” he breathes, seeing the boy draw another lungful of tainted air in. “It’s more awed than preaching.”  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes and tilts his head back to blow out a hazy cloud. “It’s a neat parlor trick,” he bargains like a consolidation. “Give me a poet and I probably have something from them knocking around.”  
  
“Bukowski,” Derek challenges, elbows setting on wood as he leans forward.  
  
Stiles scoffs, slumping to the side and kicking his legs out before he begins without preamble: “There’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I’m too tough for him.” He takes a breath, pausing as he envisions its stilted configuration. “I say, “stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you.””  
  
Derek frowns after the silence drags, “that one was short.”  
  
“It was either that one or “Like a Flower in the Rain,” which has the word “cunt” in it like nine times,” he laughs in reply. “Pick another.”  
  
“Plath.”  
  
Humming, Stiles stretches his arms up, raglan following the motion until there’s a bare strip of skin on display between the hem and his jeans. “This one’s a tercet sestina,” he says after he thinks through its form. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,” he begins, stopping at Derek’s snort.  
  
“That’s a lovely thought,” he mutters, catching Stiles’ exasperated look. “Sorry,” he concedes and pinches more herb, letting the boy continue.  
  
“You’re the one that wanted head-in-the-oven Sylvia Plath, dude.” He retorts, head tilted back lazily. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,” Stiles repeats. “I lift my lids and all is born again.” He pauses, voice dropping down to a low octave as he murmurs: “I think I made you up inside my head.” He’s tugging his shirt back down, laying his hands across his stomach. “The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, and arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.”  
  
He hears a lighter click and steady inhale.  
  
“I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed,” he lilts. “And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.” He swallows, slowly sitting up, already feeling the drowsiness setting in. “I think I made you up inside my head.”  
  
Derek finishes closing a small baggy, tossing it into Stiles lap. “Tell your friends that it’s thirty-five.”  
  
Stiles frowns, looking down at it. “You’re not charging  _me_?”  
  
“They’re the ones that want it,” Derek shrugs.  
  
—  
  
He texts Danny after he leaves, asking if he’s going to pick it up back at the dorms, only getting a reply with an address and four lines of “please” that end with “just come over.” So, he does, because he’s pretty sure Danny’s already drunk if he’s begging Stiles to come spend time with him.  
  
The music’s loud and front door unlocked, drunken freshman already tangled in pairs in the lounge chairs on the porch. Another text vibrates against his leg, directing him to the kitchen.  
  
“Hey!” Danny calls, voice bordering on a slur as he pours a cup from one of the five kegs.  
  
Stiles nods, smile easy as his high still ebbs away. “How’s pickings?” He asks, nodding to the assorted alcohol lining the counters and table.  
  
Danny snorts, handing off the cup. “It’s either tequila, vodka, or beer.”  
  
“No soda?” Stiles asks, the song skipping to a pulsing bass and Danny rolls his eyes.  
  
He jerks his head to a doorway, own cup filled with beer. Stiles follows him down to the basement, knowing Danny’s weary of people seeing as he reaches into his pocket, ready to palm over the baggy.  
  
Danny frowns, looking at his hand. “I don’t have a piece,” he admits, looking at Stiles hopefully.  
  
“Goddammit, Danny,” Stiles mutters without any real anger. “This is why people should have soda cans, you can make a ton of shit out of them.” He digs a hand into his pocket, pulling out his Satin. “I really hate you right now,” he says. “That’s my only one, what if you break it?”  
  
“You could stay and make sure I don’t,” Danny offers, glancing down to the red solo cup still in Stiles’ hand.  
  
—  
  
Stiles wakes up with a massive headache and a mess of blonde hair in his face trying to smother him, which is the first hint that he most definitely is not back in his dorm. The second is that the bed is far too comfortable.  
  
He sits up carefully, blinking around the room, noticing a picture frame on the end table that’s bedazzled with “ERICA AND BOYD BFFs” around a photo of the blonde girl that’s lying next to him hanging off a guy from his Bio Lab. He sends a small prayer of thanks for Erica’s propensity to put her name over everything because the only thing he can remember from the night before is shotgunning with Danny after he confessed that Stiles would have to light the bowl for him, and drinking at least four shots of Jose Cuervo. He checks under the covers, noticing his briefs are still on, but she’s panty-less.  
  
“Fuck me,” he mutters, pressing his thumbs into circle his temples.  
  
Erica makes a sleepy noise next to him, rolling over and balling herself into his hip. “Go back to sleep, Stiles,” she murmurs against the bone. “I don’t have class until four.”  
  
“Uhm,” he whispers, letting her tug the duvet up and snuggle into his back, breasts pressed against his shoulder blades. “Okay.”  
  
—  
  
The headache’s still banging around in his frontal lobe, but Erica is sweet as she shakes Stiles’ shoulder gently to wake him up.  
  
“Do you want coffee?” She asks, already dressed in sweats and a tank.  
  
Stiles blinks and shakes his head. “Please, yes,” he answers in a low guttural voice, already pawing at his jeans and tugging them on. He casts a glance to her alarm clock, frowning at the time. “Do you…” Stiles trails off and bites his lip with hesitation. “God—this sounds bad, but. Do you know what happened last night?”  
  
Erica laughs, beckoning him out into the hall before he even tugs his shirt back on. “Danny introduced us,” she explains and starts with making a pot of coffee. “We have Criminal Law together, but yeah. He introduced us and said that tequila makes you, and I quote: “a dirty slut,”” she’s smiling at him over her shoulder and Stiles flushes with embarrassment.  
  
“Which is why I don’t usually drink,” he maintains, scratching at the inside of his elbow self-consciously.  
  
“Well, it’s true.” She shrugs, sliding a filter in and pouring grounds down before pushing its buttons. “So we came back here, but you couldn’t get it up.”  
  
Stiles frowns, quirking a brow. “So… We didn’t have sex?”  
  
She huffs a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that,” she admits, pointedly leering at his mouth. “I certainly had multiple amounts of fun last night.”  
  
“Oh.” He falters, watching her pour two cups. “I—uhm. I was… Good?”  
  
Erica slides a mug over, leaning her hip against the counter. “I’m making you coffee, aren’t I?” She takes a gulp, the amused glint never leaving her eye. “My roommate doesn’t come back until one,” she comments off-handedly. “Do you want to…?”  
  
The blush tinting his cheeks still hasn’t died down, and he nearly chokes on the scalding hot coffee at the offer. “You want to?” He questions with wide eyes. “I mean,” he sputters wildly, over-correcting. “You are way out of my league here, are you sure you want to with me without beer-goggles?” She laughs and rolls her eyes, hand shooting out to grab at the button of his jeans and tug him back towards her room.  
  
“Relax,” Erica whispers against Stiles’ mouth and tugs down his zipper.  
  
—  
  
“You should grow your hair out,” Erica tells him as she thumbs through her wardrobe for something to wear. “It’d make it easier to direct you.”  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes from her bed. “Nope,” he rejects and casts a look to his pants on the floor, feeling like he should dress since she’s leaving soon, but makes no move to put them back on. “The longer my hair is, the easier it is for people to smell weed on me.”  
  
She pulls a shirt over her head. “Honey,” she sneers. “You’re not fooling anyone, trust me.” He pouts and she giggles, tossing a discarded shirt at his head. Erica’s fixing her eyeliner in the mirrored doors of her closet when he’s finally done wrestling it back on.  
  
“Shit,” Stiles curses when he pats his pockets to find his phone, nine text alerts blinking at him. “My spoon’s gone.”  
  
“The white thing you and Danny were smoking with?” She asks, quirking a brow. “Yeah, he took it with him in to the garden and lost it last night.”  
  
He sighs. “Damn it, Danny.”  
  
—  
  
“Huh,” Stiles comments when they walk out of her apartment together. “This looks like Derek’s building.”  
  
Erica quirks an eyebrow as she locks the door, “Derek? Derek  _Hale_?”  
  
“He’s my…” Stiles trails off, hand waving around vaguely in the air between them.  
  
Erica’s confusion is unyielding as she asks “your ex?”  
  
Stiles shakes his head profusely. “No,” he answers staunchly. “He’s my…” He makes a face, shifting between both feet. “I don’t want to call him my dealer, but yeah. He’s my dealer. Even though he kind of stopped charging me awhile back.”  
  
She’s already smiling at him with hidden mirth, jerking her chin toward the elevator. “He’s my neighbor,” she says as they pass by the painted viridian door emblazoned with a golden 4B.  
  
“Oh,” Stiles observes. “You’re, uh… Really close to campus, then.”  
  
—  
  
Scott is still sacked out on his bottom bunk when Stiles gets back, drooling over his pillow and making gentle snuffling noises as he throws his limbs into a starfish shape under his stripped comforter.  
  
Stiles laughs gently, opening their shared mini-fridge for a Gatorade before he slumps in front of his laptop and cracks open his Lit textbook for the reader response he has due on Wednesday. He figures he can pester Danny on Tuesday about Derek’s owed money and his missing piece, after the weekend’s hangovers and Monday’s usual drag.  
  
Danny’s reliable, anyway.  
  
—  
  
“So you disappeared yesterday,” Scott says after he finishes inhaling the lukewarm spaghetti the dining hall stores under heat lamps for upwards of hours. His hand twitches toward Stiles’ garlic bread before he slides it over for Scott to take.  
  
Stiles nods, still chewing. “Yeah, that party,” he answers. “I had to get a dime bag for Danny and ended up staying there?”  
  
Scott snorts, “you hate parties, dude.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees and swallows a gulp from his coke. “I mean—it’s usually the drinking I hate.”  
  
“Because tequila makes you a whore,” Scott fills in as he tears the crust off of the slice.  
  
Stiles slumps in his seat, hands thrown up in half-hearted irritation. “You’d think they’d stop giving it to me after they found that out.”  
  
Scott bites his lip, holding back a laugh. “Giving it to you?” He questions, voice dropping with innuendo. His snicker draws the attention of a group of sophomores as Stiles crumples napkins into balls and chucks them across the table.  
  
—  
  
TO: Derek  
Can’t this week.  
Danny lost Satin.  
  
FROM: Derek  
Satin?  
  
Stiles glares unimpressed at his phone, rolling his eyes as he slumps further down in the uncomfortable theater seats that stagger the lecture hall of his Principles of Macroeconomics class.  
  
TO: Derek  
I named my pipe Satin.  
Like “Nights in White Satin.”  
  
TO: Derek  
That song from the 60’s.  
  
TO: Derek  
Because she was white.  
  
The professor’s speech trips as he cranks the projector’s handle, forcing Stiles’ gaze up. He frowns in disdain at the machine from his elementary school days before he looks to the digital one overhead. The new list of talking points scrolls up painfully slow, but Stiles dutifully scribbles them down before his phone vibrates in his lap.  
  
FROM: Derek  
You know you don’t have to name/gender them all, right?  
  
He could practically hear the annoyed glare he was receiving on the other end of his phone; the obvious annoyance doesn’t even cut into the secret appreciation Stiles had for the proper spelling and grammar of Derek’s texts. His thumbs begin to type out a reply before it buzzes again, flashing the message.  
  
FROM: Derek  
You have an essay due.  
Come over anyway.  
  
A hum escapes the back of Stiles’ throat, wanting to question it—ask when exactly Derek began to know about his schedule or even his homework. He types and deletes at least four replies before he just gives up and sends one that doesn’t mention Adderall.  
  
TO: Derek  
Okay.  
  
—  
  
Stiles digs out his laptop and textbook, setting them on the heavy oak dining room table Derek keeps in his apartment pressed against the low-dividing wall that separates the kitchen from the open living room. It’s so big Stiles figures he had to bring it in a box.  
  
“Here,” Stiles offers, unzipping the front pocket of his backpack to root out the red and black jellyfish piece Scott leant to him. “My roommate gave it to me,” he explains, opening his computer and jamming his finger into its power button.  
  
Derek snorts and reaches to pick it up. “I was just going to tell you to make one out of a soda can.”  
  
“Fuck that,” Stiles retorts. “I’d rather an apple than a fucking soda can.” He shudders, back hunched in as he makes a disgusted noise and shakes his head. “That paint-on-aluminum flavor tastes gross, no thank you.” He’s already pulled up the vague outline he smashed out in his hangover-sex stupor on Saturday, frowning as he rereads his topic sentence for the third paragraph. “I’m probably going to be here awhile,” he admits sheepishly, unzipping his jacket.  
  
Derek just nods and pinches to fill the bowl. “You at least have your lighter still, right?” He asks dryly as he hands the glass off.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes, holding it up. “No, I brought a pipe with no lighter,” he says as his thumb rasps against the metal and circles. Derek shakes his head with exasperation, but slides the bottom of his grinder over for Stiles to take from as he takes a hit.  
  
Stiles’ fingers are already flying over keys by the time Derek even has his first hit. “Knead my creases with your lips,” he’s quoting quietly as he stares at the screen. “Hold me by both hips firmly and roll me in your—“ He stops, nose scrunching as he taps at the backspace with his middle finger and chews his bottom lip.  
  
“What is it?” Derek asks, standing to peer around at the monitor.  
  
“I hate this poem,” Stiles grunts and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and groans pitifully. “And I made my whole essay about Freud and this stupid metaphor about cooking and sex—just, no.” He vindictively presses the macro to select all and deletes the blue-highlighted text. “I’m doing “Dishes,”” he says and retypes the heading.  
  
—  
  
He’s four pages through his new essay, muttering under his breath as he analyzes its synecdoche and parallels of the dissonance between “intellect” and “mind.”  
  
“I want Chipotle,” Stiles announces, even though Derek abandoned the table in favor of the couch where he’s watching a Dodgers game on mute.  
  
“They close in an hour,” Derek remarks, nodding at the display under his TV. “We’d have to hurry.”  
  
“They don’t close until—“ He looks down at the toolbar, frowning at its clock. “Shit, it’s almost nine.”  
  
Derek quirks a brow, unimpressed. “Come on,” he sighs and stands, grabbing for his leather jacket on the hook. “You can leave your stuff here.”  
  
Stiles scrambles, pulling his hoodie back over his shoulder as he follows out, zipping it as Derek locks the door. “I’m getting like two burritos,” he warns and shoves his hands into the pockets. “With all the salsa and steak they have.”  
  
“Okay,” Derek shrugs and hits the button for the elevator.  
  
“No,” Stiles shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t think you understand,” he presses. “You think I want a lot of salsa and steak, but what I said was “all the salsa and steak.””  
  
“Stiles,” Derek snorts and the shaft dings its arrival. “You are not Ron Swanson, stop it.”  
  
“Of course I’m not,” Stiles rolls his eyes, the reply “if anything you’re Ron,” dying in his throat as Erica steps out of the elevator. “Hi, Erica,” he greets with a wave.  
  
“Hey, Stiles,” she purrs. “Derek,” she nods after. “You guys heading out?”  
  
Stiles nodded, “yeah, we’re, uh… Going out for some food.”  
  
“Cool,” Erica nods and steps further down the hall. “Have fun,” she smiles and parts with a wave.  
  
—  
  
“Everything,” Stiles commands to the poor girl stationed behind the glass display. “Like, at least two tortillas.”  
  
She gives him a look that suggests he’s crazy, but presses two tortillas and lays them out on the tinfoil before she scoops both white and brown rice to bed the pinto and black beans.  
  
Stiles catches a look from Derek at the register and mouths, “ _everything_.”  
  
—  
  
Derek frowns down at the bag when they wait for the light to change, “It weighs as much as a small child.”  
  
Stiles shrugs, “When I eat, it is the food that is scared.”  
  
“Have you run out of poetry? Switched over to Parks and Rec quotes?” He asks and hits the button again.  
  
“Nope,” Stiles answers in return; spitefully reciting Goldbarth as they cross the road: “Slow—inch by inch America is giving itself to the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness lap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.”  
  
—  
  
Scott’s cellphone clatters against the table, causing everyone else in the library to whip their heads around to stare at them. He grins sheepishly and swipes his thumb to silence the noise.  
  
“Allison wants to know your boyfriend’s name,” he quotes, sounding confused. “Dude, I didn’t know you got a boyfriend.” He raises his hand, reaching over his laptop and across for a high five.  
  
Stiles snorts at him and bats the hand away. “I didn’t,” he answers, pausing as he rereads through the essay he wrote the night before, editing his punctuation and rewording sentences he thinks sound weird. “Why does she think I have one?”  
  
Scott shrugs, looking back toward his phone as he texts her back. “You went to Chipotle last night?” He asks, looking back up with a quirk of his eyebrow. “With some…” he pauses, glancing back down. ““Abercrombie-looking guy,” according to Lydia.”  
  
“I thought you said Allison wanted to know,” Stiles observes, unimpressed as he stops writing to look over his monitor at Scott.  
  
“They both want to know, but Lydia’s the one that saw you. I guess?” Scott offers and closes his phone. “So who is he?”  
  
“Derek,” he answers with an eye roll and tilts the screen back up. “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my dealer… I had the munchies and was burnt out writing my essay, so we went to Chipotle.”  
  
Scott frowns. “Didn’t you say he doesn’t charge you anymore?”  
  
“Well, I mean,” Stiles shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s not like I’m—“ he stops, realizing he’s getting increasingly louder as more people turn to glare at him. He sighs and continues after dropping his voice back down to a hiss, “It’s not like I fucked—or blew him, for that matter—to get my supply for free.”  
  
Scott blinks. “I didn’t say you did, dude.” He puts his phone away, waving his hands to show they’re empty as some sort of peace offering. “So you share burritos sometimes, whatever.”  
  
“Nah,” Stiles shakes his head, still typing out his conclusion furiously. “The most we share is lighters usually.”  
  
Scott hums across their shared desk, typing noticeably slower. “Danny shares pipes with you,” he says, tone taking offense when Stiles just shrugs. “Hell, even Jackson shares pipes with you.”  
  
Stiles laughs. “That’s because Jackson secretly wants approval and thinks it’s customary like puff-puff-pass.” He shrugs and goes back to his essay on the role of intellect and its representation of humanity as a whole. “Some people don’t like sharing lighters,” he continues. “Derek doesn’t like sharing pipes.”  
  
“How many of your lighters does he have now?” Scott asks, like there’s supposed a ratio between lighters and thickened glass that evens out.  
  
Stiles hums like he’s thinking about it and trying to place an actual number on it, but keeps typing and stays silent.  
  
—  
  
“I fucking hate finals,” Stiles moans pitifully in front of his laptop, his ECON study guide in front of him, textbook propped open as he fills in the answers.  
  
Derek shrugs, watching a football game on his couch. “At least Chui puts them in order of the reading instead of skipping around.”  
  
Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and scalp. “Small victory,” he murmurs and reaches for his backpack, pulling out another book.  
  
“That’s not a textbook,” Derek reprimands, looking at Stiles’ graphic novel with a grain of distaste.

“Correctamundo,” Stiles nods and hold up the comic panels. “But, it is for a class.”  
  
Derek’s flat look is persistent, challenging as he asks, “Really?”  
  
“Yup,” he nods in response. “Sandman gives another angle to Shakespeare and some of his works like Midsummer Night’s Dream.” He thumbs to a page, pressing the spine to his chest as he points to a fawn in the foreground. “That’s the inspiration of Puck, who’s actually from Faerie, because Morpheus struck a deal with Shakespeare for three plays in exchange for fame and his writing skill.”  
  
“Only you would,” Derek scoffs and turns back to the television.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes, even if the other man can’t see. “There is legitimate literary merit with comic books,” he defends.  
  
Derek shakes his head, but doesn’t debate it.  
  
—  
  
“You going back home for break?” Stiles asks an hour later and two pages deeper into his study guide.  
  
Derek nods, “Yup.”  
  
“Ah,” Stiles hums, leaning his head against his open palm as he flicks his pen back down to the table. “So like, out of state or…?”  
  
“Stiles.” Derek says his name slowly, like he’s testing the syllables. “I’m not being your distraction from your study guide.”  
  
He frowns, muttering “Whatever, like you’re interesting, anyway,” as he skims over the spread of his textbook, looking for statistics on the labor force.  
  
—  
  
“Your music tastes suck,” Derek murmurs in the dark on his back, shoulder pressed into the wood of his entertainment system.  
  
Stiles makes a noise in his throat, huffing out his nose, and it’s too quiet to be heard over the crappy beat his phone’s built-in speakers are bumping out, dropped one too many times to be clear. “No,” he disagrees lethargically. “Dude had a rap with E.E. Cummings in it, he is awesome.”  
  
Derek laughs, a mellifluous giggle that’s an easy spot if you’re looking for the signs of a stoner. “Does all your music have to reference poets?”  
  
“Not all of them,” Stiles drawls. “Adam WarRock has songs about West Coast Avengers and Futurama.” He rolls over, pillowing his head with his forearms as his legs draw up and splay out. Singing, “I am running this bitch, you are just a dog walker,” into the crook of his elbow as the music warbles and pops.  
  
—  
  
The only reason he walks home is because Scott calls, begging for Stiles to help him cram. “I’m going to fail,” he moans, even though it’s only eight and his test isn’t until two the next day.  
  
He rolls his shoulders and packs his papers and books back into his bag, wrapping his laptop charger up and around the length of his forearm before he puts it away. He pauses, quirking a brow down at the floor where Derek’s still laying, watching him. “Go to bed, man,” he commands, doing a final sweep to make sure he’s not forgetting something. “I’ll see you later, lock the door behind me, okay?”  
  
—  
  
Stiles finds himself thanking the benevolent deities that allowed him to have professors that actually gave out study-guides, because Scott is near wheezing as he sets three novels out and attempts to find a prevalent theme between them for his essay.  
  
“I’m going to fail,” he repeats as he grabs a paperback emblazoned with red, white, and blue and searches through haphazardly highlighted chunks of text.  
  
—  
  
Scott wakes him up as he paces around the room to dress and find his blue book and packet of scantrons, making a racket as he upheaves a pile of laundry and checks in their standard-issue chest of drawers, muttering under his breath “Any other day, seriously. Any other fucking day, universe.”  
  
“Desk drawer,” Stiles advises in a low grate, rubbing a hand over his face before he leans to peer at the time and whine that it’s only 12:07. “Dude,” he pouts, squirming to get his back to Scott and drag the sheets over his head, satisfied he chose his Monday class to be at least past 4PM.  
  
His roommate makes a triumphant noise, finding what he’s looking for. “You’re the best,” he gushes and picks up his backpack to cram his books into it. “Seriously, Stiles,” Scott continues, caring not for Stiles’ sleep schedule. He stands on his mattress, putting his head at the same height as Stiles’, leaning in. “You have done your good deed for today,” he whispers, the smile evident and wide in his voice. “Bless you, oh great and merciful Stilinski.”  
  
“I fucking hate you,” Stiles grouches, snaking a hand out to push Scott’s face away.  
  
“My,” Scott hums, undeterred as he sits down to pull his Vans on. “All that suave talk really goes away when you’re cranky, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Get to your fucking class,” Stiles hisses and burrows further against the wall and Scott laughs, finally leaving him alone.  
  
—  
  
Stiles snags a case of beer for him and Scott, happy his test went well.  
  
“And to make-up for being an ass this morning,” he says when he hands over a bottle. “I’m sorry, Scott.” He smiles and fiddles for the keychain in his pocket, popping the top off with its attached bottle-opener. “But sleep is precious to me.”  
  
Scott snorts and waves him off, twisting his top under the fabric of his t-shirt. “Don’t worry, man. I get it.”  
  
“Oh, so manly,” Stiles teases with a smile full of secret laughter and tilts his head back for a drink.  
  
—  
  
“You register for Spring classes yet?” Scott asks, watching Stiles heave his half of the closet and shove his clothes in haphazardly to a duffel bag.  
  
Stiles nods, folding his jeans. “Yeah, I’m back down to twelve credits.”  
  
Scott chuckles, spinning in the cheap office chair. “Seriously? You’ve always taken like eighteen.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Stiles shrugs. “I need more prerequisites for my major, so I’m focusing on those.”  
  
Scott shrugs. “Hey, no judgment. With you taking twelve I can stop feeling like an under-achiever.” He stands, bringing the laundry basket over to his bed. “I don’t know what’s yours or mine anymore,” he admits sheepishly.  
  
“I wonder if this is what it’s like to be a couple,” Stiles responds, frowning vaguely down at the clothes. “Is the romance really gone, Scott?”  
  
“Shut up,” Scott grins, brushing his knuckles against Stiles’ bicep in a half-hearted punch. “So what’re you taking?”  
  
“British History, American Lit, Anthro, and World Mythology,” Stiles lists and zips his suitcase closed. “So pretty easy semester, I guess?”  
  
“Dude, shut up,” Scott rolls his eyes. “We get it, you’re here on scholarship and you’re, like, super smart. You’re going to get your masters at MIT or something.”  
  
Stiles laughs at him, lifting his bag off the bed as his phone vibrates and whistles, signaling a text from his dad. “I’ll see you after New Year’s, man. I’ve got to get on the road.”  
  
Scott waves him off, fake crying and everything.  
  
—  
  
Stiles pancakes out on to his old bed, hands gripping at the edges of the mattress. “I’ve missed you so much,” he utters into the soft and worn cotton, muffled until he turns his face.  
  
“Son?” His dad asks from the doorway. With the uniform and arms crossed, Stiles thinks distantly about all the reasons he should be afraid of the police. “Should I leave you and your bed alone?”  
  
Stiles snorts a laugh and rolls to stand, promising, “Nope, no. I’m done,” as he wraps his arms around his dad in a hug. “Sorry, it’s weird to have a bed where I’m not constantly in danger of rolling off and cracking my head open.”  
  
“You’d find a way,” he answers, patting Stiles’ back.  
  
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” Stiles grins and pulls away.  “Now let me raid the fridge before I go into hibernation.”  
  
He steps aside, letting Stiles pass down to the stairs into the kitchen. “I haven’t had time to go to the store,” he warns as he watches Stiles open the fridge and frowns down at the bare contents.  
  
“Dad,” Stiles drawls and looks over to the oven’s clock, frowning at the time. “We’re going shopping tomorrow,” he says, too used to twenty-four hour supermarkets off campus. He closes the fridge door, shaking his head. “All these antique shops and old people,” he tuts and shakes his head. “Everything closing at six, how will I ever survive?”  
  
“We’re not that old,” his dad replies shaking his head, exasperated.  
  
“Your blood pressure and cholesterol suggests otherwise, old man.”  
  
—  
  
“We need ketchup,” his dad says, looking up at the aisle sign to search for “CONDIMENTS,” before he turns, Stiles following dutifully behind him, pushing the cart filled mostly with fresh produce despite the best attempts of the sheriff.  
  
“Reduced salt, okay?” He asks, arms folded as he bends at the waist and pushes lazily. His dad has work in three hours, so Stiles woke up early to at least get the shopping out-of-the-way. He knows if he’s left to his own devices, his dad won’t eat half the stuff after Stiles leaves and stops making it for him. And he may turn a blind eye to the sleeve of Oreos his dad sneaks in when they go down the snack isle for pretzels and not potato chips. He can practically sense his father rolling his eyes, but stops short when he notices who’s picking up BBQ sauce at the other end of the aisle.  
  
Derek seems to notice Stiles as his dad mutters about the price of Heinz until he picks up the off-brand. He looks a confused mixture of horrified and questioning. Like he wants to know what the hell Stiles is doing in Beacon Hills’ Safeway. Which is unfair in Stiles’ mind, because what the fuck is Derek doing there? His eyes snap to his dad, who’s dressed in his uniform just in case they run late at the store.  
  
“Derek, right?” His dad speaking up and Derek schools his face back from terrified. Stiles doesn’t have much luck, he can feel his eyes still-wide and the carefully measured breathes he’s drawing in shakily. “You’re Laura’s brother?”  
  
Derek nods, smiling. “Yeah, unfortunately,” he says with an air of healthy sibling disdain. “I’m up visiting for the holidays.”  
  
“That’s great, son.” He smiles in reply. “Nice you could come up,” he speaks, setting the ketchup into the cart absently. “Don’t you go to school down there with Stiles?” He asks, nodding back to his son. Stiles frowns, realizing he’s wearing his CAL hoodie, its yellow cursive standing out against the navy blue. He tracks Derek’s eyes, glancing down at it.  
  
“Yeah, I guess so,” he nods.  
  
Stiles swallows, looking to the cart. “Sh—oot,” he near-curses. “We need milk,” he explains, knowing the bemused look his dad’s giving him is for his cussing. “I’ll be right back,” he promises already stepping back from the death-grip he had on the cart’s handle. “Stick to the list, okay? I’ll find you.”  
  
He walks steadily out of the aisle, trying not to clench his hands into fists as he hears footsteps scuffling after him.  
  
“Your dad’s the fucking sheriff of my hometown,” Derek hisses when Stiles is pretending to search through the expiration dates on the cartons of 1%. “When were you going to tell me that?”  
  
“Uhm,” Stiles stalls, closing the glass-paned door. “Never?” He ventures. Seeing the hard placed scowl on Derek’s face, Stiles knows it’s not what he wanted to hear. “How was I supposed to bring it up?” He asks, voice pitching on hysterical in the middle before he forces it back down. “Right around the first time I was sparking up, just lean over and go, “Oh, hey, by the fucking way, I’m from Beacon Hills and my dad’s the sheriff, but he doesn’t know I do recreational drugs on the weekly,” and then recite Millay to you? Yeah, because that’d work out so goddamn well.” He snatches a jug out, dimly aware that it’s set to expire in two weeks, when he’s gone.  
  
Derek’s scowl hasn’t moved, and Stiles does not care that he’s angry.  
  
“Just,” he begins and stops, pressing the heel of his palm into the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t even smoke when I’m visiting, dude. And I know you should be all “fuck the police,” and everything, but. That’s my dad.” Stiles agonizes, opening his eyes again. “I’m supposed to be a good kid, okay? I have a 4.0 GPA and a full-ride scholarship and I recycle and donate to charity.” He switches the milk over into his other hand, palm already clammy. “Please don’t give him any reason to be suspicious—especially since we’re actually in his jurisdiction.”  
  
Derek frowns, shaking his head. “Calm down,” he mutters, watching a mother herd her two kids away from the juice selection. “I’m not going to tell your dad.”  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles sighs, relieved. “If I’m getting arrested, I’m not dealing with his patented “disappointed father,” face on top of it.” He sighs, nodding. “He’s probably not sticking to the grocery list at all right now,” Stiles utters with realization. “I have to go make sure he doesn’t die of a heart-attack, knock on wood, so.” He waves, cringing mentally at himself. “You have my number if you need anything.”  
  
“What could I need?” Derek asks, watching Stiles walk away.  
  
“Something to do?” Stiles returns with a shrug before he turns to hunt through the store for his father.  
  
—  
  
FROM: Derek  
That offer still open?  
  
Stiles frowns, pausing the current puzzle of Portal he’s on as he reads the text. He chews at his lip, trying to remember exactly what he said, but lets his thumbs type a simple reply.  
  
TO: Derek  
Yup.  
What’s up?  
  
FROM: Derek  
Family’s driving me up a wall.  
Got any plans tomorrow?  
  
He pauses, thinking of his usually haunts before he types out an address.  
  
TO: Derek  
Meet there?  
Noon-ish?  
  
FROM: Derek  
No problem.  
  
—  
  
Stiles smiles, stepping into the shop, feeling at home despite the heavy smell of unwashed teens that permeates from the configuration of card tables. He passes the shelves marked in obnoxious neon with “MARVEL,” or “DC,” the libraries stretched out in alphabetical order with colorful covers and well-known insignia, as he makes his way to the back.  
  
“Isaac,” he greets, reaching across the display to bump knuckles with the blond. “How’ve you been, buddy?”  
  
“Hey,” Isaac grins, closing his issue of Ultimate Spider-Man. “Good,” he answers. “How about you? When did you get in, man?”  
  
“Saturday—college’s been kicking my ass,” Stiles admits. “Never let anyone talk you into taking a three hour long class, ever.” Isaac laughs, but Stiles shakes his head and points his finger. “I’m serious, I don’t care how much you love something, three hour lectures are always boring.”  
  
“Okay,” Isaac nods, seemingly taking the advice to heart. “What brings you?”  
  
“Meeting a friend here,” Stiles says. The word “friend” seems weird in reference to Derek, but it’s better than the alternative he usually gives people.  
  
“A friend?” Isaac echoes.  
  
Stiles nods. “Yup, just a friend.”  
  
Isaac shrugs, watching a group of kids pass by the large windows, the bell chiming with every new visitor, an over-weight man in sweatpants waling meaningfully to the counter with a bag stitched with the MAGIC: THE GATHERING symbol for the Betrayers of Kamigawa. “The Batmans are over there,” Isaac says and waves Stiles away as he closes his comic.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes. “What don’t your elf eyes see?” He jokes and spins on his heel to go hunt down the latest monthlies, phone in hand as he scans over issues and tries to remember if he already owns them.  
  
“You’re such a nerd,” Derek says over the shelving, looking down at the Batman Inc. in Stiles’ hands.  
  
“Oh my god,” Stiles wheezes, swallowing down his startled fright before he’s leaning up on to his toes to look at the spread of Wolverine comics on the other side of the divider. He can hear Isaac chuckling in the background at his expense. “Way to fucking lurk, man.”  
  
“Shut up, Stiles. There are kids here.” Derek refutes and passes glances over the walls of the store. He stops, spotting a tournament starting up on one of the father tables. “Shouldn’t that be Dungeons and Dragons?” he says and a sneer morphs onto his face the longer he watches the middle-age men bicker about mana and attack points. He picks up a back issue of Uncanny X-Force with Deadpool, Psylocke, and E.V.A. on the cover.  
  
“Tell me more about the nineties, pop-pop,” Stiles mocks with false awe. “Because that is the last time anyone played D&D.” He says with an amused huff. “Of course you’d like Wolverine. This explains so much,” Stiles nods, leaning against the display to look at the issue number. “He’s like the second worst influence, dude smokes and drinks.” He shakes his head. “No, I take that back. He is the worst, at least Tony Stark admitted he had a problem and went clean. But,” he continues and picks up Red Hood & The Outlaws. “I fucking called it,” he hisses with demented delight.  
  
“Wolverine’s cool,” Derek retorts. “He’s basically _the_ X-Man.” He passes a glance to the New Ultimates, frowning at Captain America.  
  
“Batman would kick his Canadian ass, and you know it.” Stiles grabs Batman and Robin, frowning before he turns to look for issues of Nightwing. “It’s like number seven in the Nerd Commandments,” he explains. “Thou shalt acknowledge that Batman beats everyone, ever, anywhere at fighting. He’d find a way.”  
  
“Bruce? Yes, no doubt,” Derek agrees. “Terry, though? No way in hell.”  
  
“That’s only two out of four,” Stiles waves off, and finds what he’s looking for. “How do you know Terry but not Dick or Damian?”  
  
Derek shakes his head and Stiles can only barely see his broad shoulder rise up in a shrug. “Your Marvel privileges are revoked,” Stiles decrees before crouching down to pull off the extra back issues hiding under the new ones. “Isaac!” Stiles yells across the shop, uncaring to the snot-nosed middle schoolers who came in to look at the action figures. “Derek doesn’t know about Damian Wayne.”  
  
“What’s wrong with him?” Isaac asks back, brow raised.  
  
“Exactly,” Stiles nods and throws a look over his shoulder. “C’mon,” he beckons and walks toward the register. “Let me talk to you about Robins,” Stiles insists and sets his sizable stack of monthlies down. “Bags and boards,” he demands before launching into a history of Al Ghuls and Lazarus Pits at Derek.  
  
—  
  
“You said you didn’t smoke while you were visiting,” Derek says as he looks at the red plastic bag weighed down to the crook of Stiles’ elbow as he bites the filter of the Marlboro and breathes the flame closer to the other end.  
  
“Nope,” Stiles pops with a stream of light smoke. “I don’t toke while I’m here.” He corrects and flicks the end off, ash drifting down. “Still a bad habit,” he mutters and takes another pull. “I don’t do this near my house, though,” he admits. “But something has to occupy my oral fixation and Isaac will only let me blow him so many times.”  
  
Derek coughs, choking at the joke and Stiles laughs at him. His mouth’s twisted into a wry smirk, sucking air through the packed cotton. “I’m joking,” he admits, a quiet “mostly,” following as he remembers the experimentation and fooling around he did in high school.  
  
“Can I bum one off of you?” He asks, nodding to the burning orange cherry on the end.  
  
Stiles shrugs and hands over the one in he’s holding. “Here,” he offers. “I only smoke half of it, anyway.” He watches Derek hesitate before he reaches out and takes the wrapped tobacco.  
  
“How many of these do you need?” Derek asks after a few breaths, hand swinging down as he flicks off the ash. “It only takes you a couple bowls to get you reciting most of the time.”  
  
Stiles stops sliding his comics into their plastic sleeves, humming with thought. “I can do it without,” he admits. “They just make it easier.”  
  
Derek crushes the butt under his boot, exhaling the last bit of smoke with his head tilted down-wind. “Easier?” He echoes with a swallow, mouth dry and ashen.  
  
Stiles laughs, sounding empty. “Yeah, like… I would never recite Sappho or Brautigan’s “Beautiful Poem,” to you without something to slip my inhibitions.” He shrugs and nods to his jeep out in the parking lot. “I have to go make my dad dinner.”  
  
—  
  
GROUP MESSAGE: TO: Scott  & Isaac  
I am having a crisis.  
  
Stiles sends it out sitting on the kitchen counter as he waits for the water on the stovetop to boil. He’s being honest with himself when he bets that Scott’s not going to get back to him until much later, so he preemptively pulls up another message.  
  
TO: Scott  
Derek’s from my hometown and we  
hung out sober. He bought comics  
with me, Scott. Help.  
  
The phone vibrates violently in his hand as he sends it off, displaying Isaac’s reply.  
  
FROM: Isaac  
It hav anything 2 do w/ tht dude tht came n 2 the store?  
  
Stiles frowns, stirring the spaghetti as he feels his inner English major claw to the surface and bitch about Isaac’s chatspeak. He weighs his options, trying to figure out how rude it’d be if he just didn’t reply, before he just gives up and sends a reply to Isaac after opening cans of tomato paste and rooting around for the fresh basil he bought.  
  
TO: Isaac  
I basically told him to look up a poem that talked  
about looking at a penis and having it inside  
someone. After I made a crack about blowing you.  
  
FROM: Isaac  
@ lest he knows you're opn 2 cock! :D  
  
He figures that might be the only bright side, but refuses to acknowledge it.  
  
TO: Isaac  
You are literally no help at all.  
  
Stiles’ mashes the send button, jamming his phone back into his pocket and turns back to the stove to set the heat. Half-way through dinner he has to turn off his phone, Isaac’s barrage of sad-faced emoticons assaulting his phone.  
  
—  
  
He doesn’t get a reply from Scott, which Stiles only sighs at when he rolls over to check his phone when he wakes up the next day. His dad’s already at the station, a sticky note on the fridge with the time he’ll be back, leaving Stiles unoccupied for the foreseeable future.  
  
“You can only do so many speed runs of Legend of Zelda before it gets boring,” he concedes to his lot of gaming consoles and decides to clean the house, and goes to hunt for the bleach under the sink.  
  
Stiles is more than half way done with mopping the kitchen, belting out, “Tell Sanchito that if he knows what is good for him he best go run and hide,  daddy's got a new forty-five,” when his phone pings with his tone alert.  
  
FROM: SCOTT  
just be cool, bro.  
i buy comics w/ u all the time  
  
He laughs self-depreciatingly and perches on top of the counter, the handle of the mop held between his knees.  
  
TO: SCOTT  
See, it’d be easier to play it  
“cool,” if I DIDN’T TALK ABOUT  
PENIS POETRY AND GIVING  
ISAAC A BJ.  
  
He frowns down at the device, watching the bar load up to tell him it’s been sent, because it’s either that or going back to cleaning as he butchers Sublime songs with his off-key renditions. He sends a prayer up to Bradley Nowell as an apology before his phone chimes again.  
  
FROM: Scott  
it could b worse, u could  
have quot’d lolita  
  
Stiles stares at his phone, torn between questioning how in-depth Scott’s knowledge of Nabokov was and the relief he felt that he at least hadn’t reached the stage of his infatuation where he was parroting off the paragraph about being madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love. Admittedly not with someone grossly younger than him, but still.  
  
TO: Scott  
But I want fabulous, insane exertions  
that leave me limp and azure-barred.  
  
The floor’s mostly dry, but the corner still need to be scrubbed into, so Stiles slides off the counter to stand and puts his phone away, ignoring Scott’s reply as he dunks the mop back into the dirty vinegar-and-baking-soda mixture he concocted in the sink.  
  
—  
  
Derek’s at his front door, carrying the stack of comics Stiles jokingly referred to as “assigned reading,” under his arm.  
  
“Damian Wayne is a little shit,” is the first thing out of his mouth.  
  
Stiles nods, “I am not debating that fact. Because he is. A lot of the time.” He tugs the door open wider, letting Derek in. “He’s the best character in Red Robin, though.”  
  
—  
  
His dad comes home an hour after Derek leaves. He stayed longer than Stiles expected, suffering through his rant on Jensen-Ackles-as-Jason-Todd, hence the Chinese take-out he’s ordering in.  
  
“Orange chicken, white meat, non-breaded with broccoli, brown rice instead of white,” he rattles off into the receiver. “Vegetable chow mein, and scallion pancakes.”  
  
“Get pot stickers,” his dad calls from the couch.  
  
“You don’t need pot-stickers,” Stiles reprimands in a quiet whisper, phone cord wrapped around his wrist as he nods to the man on the other end of his receiver as he turns his back and hastily replies, “Yeah, to go. I’ll come pick it up.” He hangs up the phone with thanks. “Twenty minutes,” he says and falls into the seat next to his father.  
  
The Bengals and Eagles are playing on the television, Cincinnati winning, but Stiles knows his dad really only roots for the Raiders during the season. “Mrs. Twitchell called me today,” he says, deceptively casual. “About a, uh. Gentleman caller?”  
  
Stiles’ nose scrunches up. ““Gentleman caller?”” He repeats dubiously. “People still go around saying that?”  
  
His dad huffs out a gentle laugh, shaking his head. “Her words, not mine,” he says. “But,” he continues. “You had someone here.”  
  
“Yes,” Stiles nods. “I assume you already know who, though.”  
  
“I have an idea,” he answers. “But, I was under the impression that you and Derek Hale didn’t know each other.”  
  
“Christ, dad,” Stiles blurts. “He borrowed some of my comics and came over to return them.”  
  
“Comics,” his dad repeats, sounding skeptical.  
  
“Yes,” Stiles answers. “I have a sprawling and illustrious collection, thank you very much.”  
  
“Oh, I know,” he nods. “Because I’ve been paying for them up until you were sixteen.”  
  
Stiles sputters indignantly. “And now I’m a legal adult who is consenting to people borrowing my comics.”  
  
His dad glares, and Stiles knows he doesn’t appreciate the verbs he’s using, but it’s better than telling his dad that he wouldn’t fuck someone in his childhood bed.  
  
“Go get the Chinese,” he commands with a put-upon sigh and wave.  
  
—  
  
Christmas is quiet.  
  
They exchange gifts over the Rudolph Claymation special as the misfit toys beginning singing on a low volume. The holster Stiles wrapped in candy cane colors is a solid black Kevlar that he surprisingly found on Amazon.  
  
“Your other one was looking ratty,” Stiles explains, gesturing to it hanging on the coat rack by the front door. “Plus that one comes with a clip pouch.”  
  
His dad laughs, shaking his head. “You and your mother were always better than me with gifts,” he says and hands over an assortment of gift cards.  
  
“Hey, now,” Stiles snorts and takes them with enthusiastic glee, unwilling to breach the topic of his mother even though her absent presence is weighing heavily on both of them. “I still have that pack of fake mustaches you got me my freshman year.”  
  
Stiles watches as his dad pulls a tight smile and nods, turning back to the television. He settles back into the couch, unlocking his phone during a commercial to send out a “MERRY CHRISTMAS! :D” to everyone in his contacts, uncaring to sparse out the people he had in a study group as a sophomore.  
  
—  
  
It’s a Wonderful Life is playing, right at George’s big speech where he’s bristling: “But to you, a warped, frustrated old man, they're cattle. Well in my book, my father died a much richer man than you'll ever be!” and his dad’s snoring gently with his empty mug of eggnog in hand, which Stiles is thankful for. It’s hard enough to watch George promise Mary the moon, he honestly can’t deal with Clarence showing him what his absence does to the lives of the people he cares about.  
  
Stiles stands, turns off the TV and drapes a blanket over his father before he’s out the back door and lighting a cigarette, breathing a juddering exhale in the cold air while his phone buzzes against his hip.  
  
FROM: Derek  
Happy Christmas, Stiles.  
  
He huffs out a breath and hugs his arms closer to his body for extra warmth, thinking how often it’s been anything but.  
  
—  
  
Stiles goes out with Isaac for New Year’s, sending his dad off to a get together at the sheriff’s department, as they go to a party hosted by someone that apparently graduated with them.  
  
“Here,” Isaac yells over the obnoxious pop music that’s playing on the stupidly expensive surround sound. He passes off a cup to Stiles that’s filled with a bright red that’s fizzing.  
  
Stiles shrugs and knocks it back. “If the cops come,” he warns after his third mouthful. “It’s every man for himself. I will totally leave you, dude.”  
  
Isaac laughs, drinking from his own glass. “Just as long as you don’t ditch me for him,” he says and nods to a corner of living room, where Derek’s talking to a girl with long black hair.  
  
“A lady doesn’t leave her escort, Isaac.” Stiles returns and downs the rest of his drink before dragging him over to the clump of people dancing and draping his arms over Isaac’s shoulders, bumping their hips together with the easy rhythm.  
  
Stiles at least knows Isaac wouldn’t mind a cheeky make out when the ball drops and the clock strikes midnight, so he presses closer and lets his smile become drunken, laughing when Isaac’s hands grip at the cleft of his ass.  
  
—  
  
People are yelling, counting down until they can proclaim “Happy New Year!” at the top of their lungs. They’re pairing off and watching the TV as the camera pans over the New York skyline in anticipation of the firework display.  
  
Stiles grins up at Isaac, fingers clinging feebly as he leans into the blonde’s space and flicks his tongue out suggestively.  
  
“Yeah?” Isaac asks as he crowds him against the kitchen counter.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles nods with a quick jerk of his chin and lets Isaac presses his lips gently before he bites at his bottom lip and quietly hums his satisfaction as he licks in.  
  
—  
  
He spends January 1st on his computer, blearily buying more books off of Amazon as he drinks coffee and tries to wrestle his hangover down to manageable.  
  
Realistically, if he didn’t still have his scholarship, he would be saving the gift card to buy his textbooks, or only splurging on one of Glen Duncan’s novels instead of the three that are currently sitting in his cart along with another poetry compilation and Danielewski’s **_House of Leaves_**.  
  
His dad pulls into the drive way and Stiles hobbles down the stairs to the kitchen to put his cup in the sink. “Do you want eggs and toast?” He asks as the garage door opens and closes down the hall.  
  
“Yeah,” his dad answers back, watching Stiles reach into the cupboard to find the pans. “If it’s not too much trouble.”  
  
—  
  
He puts off doing laundry as long as he has to, aware that the pile of dirty clothes is overflowing in his hamper and on to the floor, but knows he’s going to be leaving soon and should take advantage of a washing machine that doesn’t steal his quarters and a dryer without fifteen layers of lint in it.  
  
—  
  
“I’m gonna miss you, kid,” the sheriff says, wrapping his arms around Stiles in a tight hug after he finishes packing up his Jeep.  
  
Stiles squeezes back, smiling into his dad’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll miss you, too.”  
  
His dad releases him, stepping back and keeping him at arm’s length. “Call more, okay?” He implores. “No more quick texts or in-between five minute breaks.”  
  
“Okay,” Stiles nods and fingers his key ring before getting in behind the wheel. “Love you,” he says out the window and only starts the engine after hearing “I love you, too.”  
  
—  
  
Scott greets him with open arms, forcing Stiles to drop his duffle bag as he gets crushed into a hug.  
  
“It’s good to see you, dude,” he says, releasing him and picks up the luggage. “How was your break?”  
  
Stiles shrugs, following behind Scott to their dorm. “Good,” he answers vaguely. “Standard stuff, hanging out with my dad.”  
  
“Yeah, me and my mom did the whole gift thing early,” Scott smiles minutely, wistful as he sets Stiles’ stuff down. “She had to work on Christmas.”  
  
“That’s rough,” Stiles frowns. “Was the hospital over-booked?”  
  
Scott nods, sitting in the office chair. “Yeah,” he says and then smiles wildly. “But she’s helping people.”  
  
Stiles nods his agreement, knowing that rationalization because he's repeated it to himself when his father was still a deputy and had to sleep in their house alone as he pulled a double shift to make ends meet. "Yeah," he acknowledges. "She is."  
  
Scott's smile widens and he nods. "So have you eaten yet?" He asks, defusing the edge the air had taken.


	2. Hands Like Tinder Boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stiles?” Derek answers after three rings.
> 
> “Is this a bad time?” Stiles asks, hearing a quiet TV in the background of the speaker, but he knows better than to just start heading over.
> 
> There’s a rustle before Derek answers, “You can come over if you need to.”
> 
> “Okay,” Stiles nods absently. “I’ll see you in twenty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good fucking lord, this was forever in the making wasn't it?  
> this fic is basically my baby in that i have lost sleep over it, i love it deeply, and i worry how it's going to do in the world.

Stiles’ Monday classes start with his Anthropology class at 12:30 in the Humanities building, all the way on the other side of campus from his dorm. He groaned and reached for his phone’s alarm, hating how winter break screwed his sleeping schedule and made him groggy as he pulled on jeans and stumbled out into the hall and down the stairs with his backpack.  
  
Professor Smithson was already calling out the roster by the time Stiles slipped in, and he sent a prayer of thanks that his last name was further in the alphabet as she ticked off no-shows and gave their spots away to people waiting along the wall before she welcomed them all to the course. “We’ll be focusing on witchcraft and religion, specifically their effects on a culture and how it shapes a social order,” she explains as she hands out the course syllabus. Stiles highlights her office hours and scans for anything about big projects and cheat sheets during her tests.  
  
The class he’s really excited for is World Mythology, downright giddy for it even though it’s scheduled for the following day, but the book’s propped open on his knees so he can read about Bathala as he waits in the hallway until his History class starts.  
  
—  
  
“This is History 221,” Professor Holt drawls in a heavy Texas accent. “We’ll be discussing Brits and their empire before 1604, when Elizabeth I dies and makes James the king.” He nods to the lecture hall, motioning to the whiteboard behind his back. “The course is pretty basic, so there’s no drawn-out syllabus. Just my office hours, Mr. Hale’s accommodations, and test dates.”  
  
Stiles looks up at the mention of “Mr. Hale.” He squints at the front, seeing Derek poised over a spread of papers and a laptop. Casting a weary glance to his neighbors, he pulls out his phone quickly and hides it between his knees.  
  
TO: Derek  
A little warning that  
you’d be my TA would  
have been nice.  
  
He clamps down on the urge to ask if they drug test for the teaching assistant program, figuring that the History department’s hand-in-hand with Philosophy, where the rumors of professors partaking were frequent and old. Stiles knows for a fact that Jennings let students into his office and then closed his blinds for a reason.  
  
FROM: Derek  
I thought you were  
an English major.  
  
Stiles frowns, feeling like there’s an accusatory tone to the text, but Derek’s steadfastly staring at his computer as he types, completely stoic. Professor Holt’s talking about required notebook checks to ensure they’re doing the reading and awake for the lectures, which Stiles can already tell is going to be a pain in his ass. “The good news,” he says with a wave to the spread of his syllabi. “Is that you can use your notes on three out of the four tests.”  
  
TO: Derek  
I need this as a  
prereq for my  
Shakespeare class.  
  
He doesn’t mention how he got a five and four on his AP exams for World and US history and that he thinks class is just a way for the UC system to bleed out more money from its students, but Holt starts on about papers that they’ll have to turn in about notable figures before the last week, so Stiles pays attention to the essay format as he says sternly, “William Shakespeare is off limits, I could care less about your love for The Bard.”   
  
Stiles writes, “It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,” across the margin as he chuckles to himself at the joke.    
  
—  
  
He thinks about texting Derek, asking if drug testing was a legitimate thing for post-grad positions, but he tosses his phone away and digs out the textbook for his History course, choosing instead to get ahead on the reading and their accompanying notes.  
  
An hour in, he caves and types a quick question if Derek about the notes, because the  Roman, Anglo Saxon, Viking history is dragging and Stiles just wants to know when he can read about the Wars of the Roses and Tudors.  
  
TO: Derek  
So, do you actually read  
the notes? It must be a  
bitch to grade all of them.  
  
The reply he gets is instantaneous.  
  
FROM: Derek  
Quit distracting yourself  
from your reading.  
  
Stiles decidedly does not text back with “Yes, Mr. Hale.”  
  
—  
  
“I’m literally just relating all of this to Game of Thrones,” Stiles says to Scott when he actually begins the chapter on the Plantagenet. “House of Lancaster and House of York fighting for the throne of England? Yeah, I’m making all the subtle “Winter is Coming,” and dragon jokes I can.”  
  
Scott snorts, plopping down into their beanbag chair so he can play a round of Assassin’s Creed. “Nothing is subtle with you,” Scott says as he taps into a new round.  
  
Stiles watches him play, running and swinging on to buildings as he scouts out his target. “Yeah, well,” he shrugs half-heartedly. “It’s either make jokes or stab myself in the eye with my pen.”  
  
“Jokes it is, then.” He nods and strangles a guard.  
  
—  
  
His first assignment for WM is a reader response on a Nordic myth of his choice, which he can do without a problem. “It’s only a page,” he mutters to himself as he types out Freyja’s symbolism and her position over Sessrúmnir, filling out barely three lines.  
  
“Nope,” he continues steadfastly and reads over his highlighted passages. “I do not need to get high for this.”  
  
An hour passes, and he has a page, but he knows it’s probably only C+ material because he’s heard Professor Pales grades hard. Stiles sighs and looks to his cellphone, gnawing on his bottom lip as he goes back and forth between calling or not. He sighs and rereads the paragraphs, shaking his head before he just gives up and presses the phone to his ear.  
  
“Stiles?” Derek answers after three rings.  
  
“Is this a bad time?” Stiles asks, hearing a quiet TV in the background of the speaker, but he knows better than to just start heading over.  
  
There’s a rustle before Derek answers, “You can come over if you need to.”  
  
“Okay,” Stiles nods absently. “I’ll see you in twenty.”  
  
He hangs up, shutting down his computer and packing up his textbook into his backpack before he leaves and locks the dorm behind him.  
  
—  
  
“I just really hate all the incest and kids in Norse mythology,” Stiles says as he leans on his open palm, watching Derek read the notes he scribbled in the margins of the Baldr and Hoðr’s cause-of-death scene. “It’s so confusing, Odin’s everyone’s dad sometimes and there’s giants and trolls and Jötunn,” he continues, smiling when Derek laughs at the messy scrawl of his catty comments about how he’d never cry for Baldr so that dead baby could just go to Hel for all he cared. “I’m really angry during 8AM lecture,” he explains with a wave of his hand.  
  
Derek nods, turning the page. “Why are you taking it then?”  
  
Stiles shrugs, “I only hate Norse mythology.” He reaches, taking a pinch from the cylinder of the forgotten grinder. “The African and Asian and Greek/Roman stuff’s cool, though.” Stiles laughs, poking the herb down into his bowl. “Fuck, I sound like a stoner.”  
  
“You are a stoner,” Derek replies, flicking over the lighter.  
  
Stiles frowns. “Only for educational purposes,” he defends and lights up, drawing in until his lungs fill up.  
  
—  
  
His fingers dance over the keys to his keyboard in quick succession, typing out a new thesis for Baldr’s death to focus on condemning Loki for murdering an innocent child, agreeing that he was the representation of mischief, but arguing that it didn’t go hand-in-hand with being maliciously malignant. Stiles is over-shooting the mark of one page by half, but he’s happy with the result as he hits the period on his conclusion.  
  
“Done,” he smiles, saving it in his assignments folder and slamming the laptop closed.  
  
Derek glances back from his spot in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot over his stove. “Finished earlier than usual,” he comments as he turns back to his cooking.  
  
Stiles shrugs and leans to unplug his cord. “I didn’t have to ramble about polysyndeton of an anaphoric phrase and how it enhances the poet’s wistfulness,” he answers and stops to watch the splay of muscles shift in Derek’s back as he moves and reaches for a tin of pepper in his cabinet. “Not that you understand what any of that means, though.” Stiles hears Derek snort in reply, making him grin. “What dish are you attempting?”  
  
The answer is Derek pointing to the Progresso can at his elbow.  
  
“Soup from a can?” Stiles asks in a scandalized tone. “You heathen,” he hisses, bounding over into the tile of the kitchen to grab at the aluminum. He sees Derek frown down at the pot, switching the burner off as before he grabs for a bowl. “This kitchen is wasted on you,” he announces, tossing the can into the trash.  
  
Derek shrugs, spooning noodles and carrots into his mouth. “Still tastes good,” he says after swallowing.  
  
Stiles shakes his head, sighing in exasperation as he leans against the counter. “Wasted,” he repeats and crosses his arms. “Do you know how much stuff I’d be making if I were allowed to have a working stove in my dorm instead of a crappy hot plate? Tons.” He sniffs haughtily. “Tons, Derek.”  
  
Derek glances to his stovetop, frowning. “Why can’t you just use mine?” He asks quietly.  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Stiles blinks. “Why don’t I?” He asks back. “Because you’re clearly not.” He smiles minutely, watching Derek roll his eyes.  
  
—  
  
“This isn’t weird, right?” Stiles questions, shouldering his backpack as Derek scrubs his bowl in the sink. “I mean, me being here when you’re my TA now?”  
  
Derek stops, sponge still in his soapy palm. “Not really,” he shrugs, looking like he’s biting the inside of his cheek as he mulls it over. “It’s not like you’re going to tell anyone.”  
  
Stiles nods, pulling a face at the thought. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees dumbly. “It’s just. I don’t know, you might have had some, like, policy against selling to me now.”  
  
“I don’t sell to you,” Derek mutters, turning the faucet on and washing away the suds.  
  
—  
  
Stiles feels confident handing in his essay to Pales on Thursday, stapled and triple checked for typos. He puts his on top as he hands up the stack to the guy in front of him.  
  
“Have I got everyone’s?” She asks, looking around the room.  
  
At their nods, she picks up a new set of papers, handing them out. “Your homework is to read this, be ready to write something on it,” she instructs. “Have a nice day.”  
  
“Sweet,” the girl behind Stiles says as she shoves her notebook into her bag and stands to leave.  
  
Stiles shrugs, and grabs his backpack, phone already out to text Scott about his newly free afternoon.  
  
—  
  
“You think she’ll do that for your midterm?” Scott asks as they walk to the Chinese place three blocks away.  
  
Stiles shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I think so,” he answers. “She doesn’t have a TA and teaches, like, three more classes and a hybrid.” He opens the door to the restaurant, following Scott in. “She’s probably using the time to start grading.”  
  
Scott hums, heading to the counter with his wallet out, ready to order. “You want to split a wonton soup, dude?” He asks, looking over the beef plates.  
  
“Sure,” Stiles agrees, smiling politely at the cashier. “One wonton soup, a Szechuan chicken, and…”  
  
“Beef chow mein,” Scott fills in.  
  
“Rice?” The girl asks, pen scribbling over her order pad.  
  
—  
  
Stiles gets through his last chapter for History, ready for the notebook check before the first test.  
  
“I hate notebook checks,” he moans pitifully, face smashed into Scott’s pillow because he was too lazy to climb up to his own.  
  
Scott laughs, patting Stiles’ head as he queues up Duck Soup on Netflix for his film class. “Are they that bad?” He asks, talking over the opening song.  
  
“Yes,” Stiles hisses, turning his head to breathe. “I hated them when I had to do them in high school, I hate them now.”  
  
“Oh,” Scott says making a face. “Did you have to do those dialectic journals, too?”  
  
“Those fucking things,” Stiles nods and flops around to see the screen. “I couldn’t just read Death of a Salesman and enjoy it, no. No, I had to write about the symbolism of stockings while I did it.”  
  
“Absolute worst,” Scott agrees, quieting down to pay attention to the movie.  
  
Stiles wrestles his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it to pull up Derek’s number, planning on complaining about Holt’s stupid requirements, but it buzzes in his hand with a new message from Erica.  
  
FROM: Erica  
are you coming to the  
delta-rho party on saturday?  
  
“Are you gonna go?” Scott asks, movie paused on a frame of some kind of ballroom.  
  
Stiles shakes his head. “Nah,” he answers, already typing up a reply. “I’ve got to start planning my midterm schedule.”  
  
“Shouldn’t it be better this year?” Scott questions. “Since you only have four classes?”  
  
“In theory,” Stiles nods, setting the phone against his sternum. “But two classes want essays, and I’m not looking forward to any of that.”  
  
Scott’s nose crinkles, hitting the laptop’s mouse and starting the film back up. “I wouldn’t want to be you, dude.”  
  
—  
  
Pulling his prompts up, Stiles flips through his textbook trying to find works he can write at least seven pages on. He sighs, knowing that everyone’s going to choose Poe to write on, since they’ve discussed three of his short stories in class.  
  
“Fuck it,” he exhales and flips to “Young Goodman Brown,” with his pen ready to mark up the margins about Hawthorne’s perception of evil and significance of faith.  
  
—  
  
Stiles sighs as he looks at the accumulated pile of all his syllabuses, assignments, and notes before he pulls his phone out and taps to his inbox.  
  
TO: Derek  
I have two essays, when  
can I pull an all-nighter at  
your apartment?  
  
He keeps his phone awake, waiting for a reply to come in for five minutes before he sets it down to sleep, going to crack open his history textbook to finish the last chapter in his journals.  
  
FROM: Derek  
I can only do it Friday.  
  
—  
  
“Don’t let me forget to turn on StayFocusd,” Stiles says as soon as Derek lets him in. “Or else I’ll just end up finding things on the internet to get sad about.”  
  
Derek’s brows pinch together in confusion. “That’s oddly specific,” he acknowledges, waving Stiles to the dining table where his own laptop’s already propped open with a notebook and books surrounding it.  
  
“There’s a story there,” Stiles nods, unpacking his power cord and unwinding it to plug into the wall. “But it involves me crying, so I’m not keen about sharing it with anyone.”  
  
“Understandable,” Derek empathizes, unscrewing the top to the grinder and holds it out for Stiles to pinch some herb into the spoon he pulls from his pocket.  
  
—  
  
“I hate midterms,” Stiles complains while he waits for his computer to boot up, pipe already smoked and spent on the table.  
  
Derek shrugs, his own laptop open in front of him as he thumbs through a thick, hard-backed textbook. “You sound like a real college student now,” he mutters, spreading the pages out to present a highlighted paragraph.  
  
Stiles snorts and types out his password. “Bitter, tired, and in mountains of debt?” He lists off, his literature book already tabbed open.  
  
“Basically,” Derek nods, slipping his headphones on.  
  
Stiles groans down at the table before he begins pawing through his stack of papers for his prompt in World Mythology, about the culture surrounding the gods and their stories, and starts in on his opening paragraph.  
  
—  
  
A page and a half in to his paper, Derek stretches and snags Stiles’ ankle between the pads of his feet. “Stop jiggling your leg,” he commands gently, briefly peeking his over his monitor. “You’re shaking the table.”  
  
Stiles frowns, leveling his heel to touch the carpet. “Sorry, dude,” he apologizes when he doesn’t feel Derek move away.  
  
“Do you need another bowl?” Derek asks, nodding towards Stiles’ piece.  
  
“Maybe,” Stiles shrugs, flexing out his fingers and testing the feel of them. “Yeah,” he nods, already reaching into his pocket for his lighter as Derek slides the glass closer to him.  
  
“Here,” Derek says, reaching for the grinder and opening it to poke the pipe full.  
  
Stiles takes it back with a grateful nod, pursing his lips and clicking the light on. He breathes deep, drawing the flame in and holds it as Derek watches him. Turning his head, he exhales toward the wall in a gust.  
  
“Need another?” Derek asks, still holding the top to the grinder open.  
  
Stiles shakes his head, swallowing against the dryness in his mouth. “What I need is a freaking drink,” he muses, stretching back to get the cricks out of his spine.  
  
Derek hums, already back to his keyboard and typing away. “Not until you finish your paper,” he advises. “You can’t write drunk.”  
  
“Nope, I was only blessed with writing well with one illicit substance,” Stiles agrees with a nod, tapping his index finger against the quote describing Narcissus: _“He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and exercise over all.”_ Typing out his analysis of the jealousy of Hera and unfaithfulness of Zeus ultimately cursing the youth into death as he gazed at his reflection, he nods along. “I can’t tell if this is good or I’m just starting to believe my own bullshit,” Stiles laughs, rereading the sentence.  
  
“Could be a little of both,” Derek shrugs.  
  
Stiles sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes sockets. “I’m holding you to that, you know,” he murmurs when he lets them drop, blinking against the soft light of Derek’s apartment. “The drink.”  
  
“I know,” Derek nods, smiling gently as he stares at the harsh white of his word document, the black line blinking.  
  
—  
  
Stiles puts the last period on to his conclusion, a page over the minimum. “I’m done,” he crows with a wide grin. “I finished the essay from hell.”  
  
Derek looks up from his computer, eyes glancing over the papers spread out on Stiles’ side of the table. “Why was it from hell?”  
  
Stiles snorts, sweeping his hand against the grain of his hair. “Because she said we couldn’t support our argument with “to make the gods seem more human,”” he answers. “Even though that’s exactly why.”  
  
Derek huffs a laugh through his nose, mouth quirked in the corner. “I wouldn’t want to write that essay,” he agrees.  
  
“No,” Stiles nods decisively. “Because it was horrible, and I hate writing in the APA format.”  
  
“You had to use APA for Mythology?” Derek questions, closing his laptop.  
  
“On my Anthropology one,” Stiles explains, propping his chin up in his open palm. “I finished the Mythology one like three hours back, because that was about context and it was easy,” he says with a glance down to the clock at the bottom of his desktop. “The Anthropology one was the one I was really dreading.”  
  
“Because of the prompt?”  
  
“Because of the prompt,” Stiles agrees on a yawn. “I feel accomplished, though.” He smiles, slinging his other arm up to close the lid on his laptop. “I finished before 1AM. A week early, because you were only free tonight.”  
  
“Congrats,” Derek says with no real enthusiasm.  
  
“Are you done?” Stiles asks, looking to the wall where he’s plugged in before he reaches for the cord and yanks it out of the socket.  
  
Derek shakes his head. “It’s a thesis, though,” he replies. “So I’ve got way more time then you.”  
  
“So lucky,” Stiles notes sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “You promised me a drink when I was done,” he grins, tapping his fingers against the tabletop.  
  
“I did,” Derek agrees with a nod and stands, moving toward his kitchen. “I only have a bottle of Stoli, though.”  
  
“That’ll do,” Stiles accepts, rising out of his own seat and working the kinks out of his knees from sitting for so long on the hard wooden chair. “Your couch is calling my name, though.”  
  
Derek snorts as he looks into his cabinet for his cups. “Straight or with orange juice?”  
  
“Whatever you’re having,” he answers, already curling into the arm of the sofa.  
  
The fridge opens again as Derek clatters around, eventually coming over to the couch and handing Stiles a cup. “Here,” he prompts, holding it in front of Stiles’ face.  
  
“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, watching as he snags the remote and flicks the TV on. He takes a sip, prepared for the bitterness of the alcohol, only for it to be cut with the sweetness of orange juice. He hums in appreciation, taking a bigger pull from it. “I needed this after all that.”  
  
Derek shrugs, finding the channel for Adult Swim. “Don’t mention it,” he shrugs, setting the remote down on to the end table at his elbow.  
  
Stiles tips the glass back again and downing more, watching the screen as it plays a bump with the traditional white on black before it cuts to a commercial for Look Around You. “Do you want another bowl?” Stiles asks, cocking his head to look at Derek’s side of the sofa.  
  
“If you’re getting one,” Derek shrugs as Stiles rocks up to his feet and moves back to the dining table, leaning down to snag his pipe and the grinder off it.  
  
“You going to get yours?” Stiles questions as he comes back to the couch, falling back into his seat with his legs drawn up to go crisscross on the cushion.  
  
Derek shakes his head, turning his body to face Stiles while he balances the metal cylinder on his thigh to fill his spoon. “I’ll just use yours,” he answers. “Mine’s in my bedroom.”  
  
Stiles glances up at him, trying to read his expression. “You sure?” He doubles checks, hands frozen in the air holding his pipe and lighter. Waiting a beat to see if Derek moves, he lifts a shoulder, shrugging, and strikes the metal crank against the callus on his thumb.  
  
His eyes slip shut as he breathes deep on it, holding the harsh smoke in and filling his lungs. He hums against the singed feeling of his throat, tossing his lighter down to rub the pads of his fingers over the column of his neck, head tilted back and ready to blow the smoke away. Cracking his eyes open, he sees Derek still watching him, waiting for his turn, but not moving to take the piece off of him.  
  
“Here,” Stiles mouths, beckoning him forward, the vodka making him bold.  
  
Derek moves, sliding across the worn fabric with his hand outstretched for the pipe until Stiles shakes his head and moves into his space. He takes a hold of Derek’s chin to hold him steady, angling his head to line their mouths up.  
  
Stiles waits, giving Derek enough time to push him away. But his jaw drops, opening on an inhale as Stiles blows out. Smoke curls out the sides until Derek shifts in closer, reaching out to clamp his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and seals his lips over.  
  
He jerks back, letting go of Stiles’ head and breaking out of his hold as he chokes, coughing into his fist. “Sorry,” he gasps out, wheezing in a ragged breath. “I went too fast.”  
  
Stiles blinks, looking down at the blackened herb before he flicks his eyes back up to Derek. “Want to try again?” He hazards, already reaching for his lighter where it fell against his shin.  
  
“Yeah,” Derek nods, nose snuffling. “Okay.”  
  
He nods, running the flame around the rim of his pipe and taking an ash hit into his mouth, holding it until his lungs protest. Derek scoots in, knees flush with Stiles’ as he leans into him. Stiles exhales into Derek’s mouth, tilting his head and pressing forward.  
  
Derek breathes deep, pushing in to his touch and sucking in until Stiles has to pull away to take in another breath. “Good?” He asks, eyes skirting over Derek’s face as his chest deflates out a near transparent cloud of smoke.  
  
“Good,” Derek nods, still curved into his space.  
  
Stiles hesitates, darting in and brushing his lips against Derek’s in a chaste kiss. Stiles moves back just as quickly, looking at his wide-eyed expression. “Tell me to leave and I’ll go,” he whispers.  
  
Derek gives a beat, searching Stiles’ face before he closes the distance between them. He falls back against the armrest, his arms coming up to brace against Derek’s shoulders as his legs cramp in to make room. Derek pulls back, letting Stiles rearrange himself when he makes a pained whimper at how his thigh pulls under his bulk.  
  
“You need a bigger couch,” Stiles mutters, letting Derek fall into the cradle of his hips, calves flushed with his ribcage.  
  
Derek laughs, hot air gusting against Stiles’ jawline, followed by his lips as he scrapes his teeth against the bone. He arches his head back, keening softly as his hips rut up into Derek’s.  
  
“We could move to my bed?” Derek suggests against the thin skin of Stiles’ collarbones before he sinks his teeth in with a quick nip.  
  
Stiles gasps, hand coming up to hold Derek against his throat. “Yes, good idea, great idea,” he gets out, despite how he’s trying to buck against Derek’s thigh in search of friction.  
  
Derek levers himself up, settling back onto his haunches to look down at where Stiles is spread out under him. “Are you sure?” He asks, his hand still pressed into the meat of his flank.  
  
“I mean, if you want,” Stiles manages, voice gone thick with it as he pushes himself up from the couch cushions and gets a foot flat on the ground. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says, waiting for Derek to decide.  
  
“C’mon,” he urges, pulling Stiles up with him as he moves to stand, pulling him along to the back end of his apartment.  
  
Stiles stumbles into the hard plane of Derek’s back as he stops to push the door open in the dark, the knob bouncing off the wall as they stagger into the bedroom and towards the mattress. He grabs a hold of Derek’s shoulder, nudging him into spinning around to face him, his mouth meeting the corner of Derek’s, stubble scratching rough against his lips. He shifts, planting on Derek’s mouth, teeth catching on his bottom lip in victory before his tongue lashes out to soothe over the hurt.  
  
Derek moves back, tugging Stiles into following by his hips as the back of his knees buttinto the edge of his bed. “Hold on,” he pants out, already out of breath from sucking on his tongue. He sits, pulling Stiles along to spread out in the space of his lap.  
  
“Yeah?” Stiles asks, smacking his reddened lips together to feel where they’re already going to bruise. He spreads his thighs further apart, balancing and settling his weight on the crux of Derek’s legs.  
  
Derek nods, burying his nose into the spot behind Stiles’ ear, mouth moving over the speckled alabaster of his throat, his pulse already jumping up to meet. He mewls, hands falling from Derek’s arms to his waist, reaching for the hem of his shirt.  
  
“Can I?” Stiles entreats, skimming over the heated skin of his stomach.  
  
He draws back, hands falling away from Stiles’ thighs to reach for his own shirt, pulling it up and off. Tossing it to the floor, Derek leans up to Stiles, dragging him into a kiss.  
  
Stiles moans, opening up for Derek to lick into his mouth as his hips grind down. He pulls back, levering himself back by Derek’s shoulders. “Hold on,” he sighs, tugging his own shirt off. Derek ducks down, sucking a nipple in between his teeth and making Stiles mewl at the sensation.  
  
“Shit,” he curses, voice gone breathy as Derek pulls off to do the same to his other nipple. He reaches up, swiping his thumb across the pink nub, pebbled and hard from abuse. “Up here,” Stiles commands, taking a hold of Derek’s jawline to haul him off of his chest. He presses Derek down on to the sheets, blanketing him as he nips at Derek’s lips.  
  
Stiles reaches down, taking a hold on Derek’s wrists to move his hands down to the edge of his jeans. “Take them off,” Stiles says against his mouth, shoving his hips forward into Derek’s grip.  
  
He pulls the button from its loop, the zipper coming down after. Derek’s hand moves lower, past the splay of denim to cup the straining line of Stiles’ cock. He reaches for the rest of his clothes, shoving his pants and briefs to the stretch of his thighs.  
  
“Stand up,” Derek commands, shoving back gently at Stiles’ waist.  
  
He obeys, wrenching back to step down beside the bed and let his jeans drop down to his ankles. “Here,” Stiles beckons, gripping Derek’s belt and tugging the leather out of its metal. Derek shoves his hips up, helping Stiles pull his pants down.  
  
Derek pulls him back down, his forearm bracing against Stiles’ lower back. “Here,” he urges, nudging him into his lap again, thighs spread and taut with the stretch. He fits under Stiles’ jaw, mouthing at the prominent tendon of his neck.  
  
“Lube’n condom,” Stiles breathes, rutting against the jut of his abs as he bares his throat to Derek’s teeth. “Do you have any?”  
  
Derek nods, moving around Stiles to reach for his nightstand. Opening the drawer, he reaches in for the bottle and foil packets. “How do you—?” He starts, holding them up for Stiles to look at.  
  
“Fuck, uhm,” Stiles blinks, his pelvis still rocking into the heat of Derek’s stomach. A sigh shudders out from his lungs, breathing deep to regain his bearings. “Wanna ride you.”  
  
“Yeah?” Derek asks, popping the cap off of the tube of slick to coat his fingers. At Stiles’ nod, he reaches in between his legs to press against the tightened pucker.  
  
Stiles sighs, slumping against Derek’s shoulder as he tries to open up to the intruding digit. “Go slow,” he cautions, teeth leaving indents in the skin at his collar. “It’s been awhile since someone else’s done it.”  
  
“I’ve got you,” Derek reassures quietly, easing his finger in to the knuckle. He curls his digit against the tight rim of Stiles’ hole, making him whimper as he shifts into it, taking it deeper. Derek pumps leisurely, feeling Stiles relax as he grinds into it.  
  
“Another,” Stiles commands, shoving back. “Need another.”  
  
Derek nods, palming Stiles’ shaking thigh. “Yeah,” he agrees, stuffing another in and holding it there as Stiles groans against his neck. “Still good?” He asks, swiping his thumb along the cut of Stiles’ hip.  
  
“S’good,” Stiles nods emphatically. “Keep going,” he encourages, already rising up on his knees to thrust down.  
  
He twists his fingers in, stretching him out as he drives his hand up to meet the movement. Stiles’ pelvis hitches up, angling Derek’s digits. “There,” he mewls, spreading his knees further apart to let Derek thrust in deeper. “Fuck—“ He keens, burying a hand in the hair at Derek’s nape. “Yeah, just like that, _fuck_.”  
  
“Think you can handle another?” Derek asks, tilting his head back into Stiles’ grip.  
  
“Yes,” Stiles answers immediately. “Please.”  
  
Pressing a third finger in makes Stiles whine and clench. “Fuck,” he breathes out, trying to relax into the stretch as Derek bottoms out. “Give me a minute.”  
  
Derek peppers kisses along his shoulder, trying to ease into a slow rhythm. “Breathe,” he commands, keeping the pace steady until Stiles starts squirming into it and meeting him.  
  
“I’m good,” Stiles says, tiny whimpers sounding in the back of his throat every time Derek’s hand stabs in. “Oh my god, please, I’m good.”  
  
Slipping his fingers out, Derek reaches for the strip of condoms and tears one off. He rolls the latex down his cock and slicks himself with more lube, holding on to the base as Stiles levers up and sinks down on to him.  
  
With Stiles’ hips flush against the cradle of Derek’s lap, he gasps and fights to stay still. “Jesus, Derek,” he grits out, his breath shuddering. “Hold on,” Stiles placates as he rocks his hips in a small circle.  
  
“Here,” Derek mutters, reaching down to stroke his cock.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Stiles hums in appreciation, shifting into the motion. “Let me just—“ He stutters out, taking a hold on to Derek’s shoulder’s for leverage as he swivels his hips for the perfect angle.  
  
Derek grips on to the meat of Stiles’ thighs, fucking up into him. “Stiles,” Derek gets out, tucking his face against his neck and dragging the flat of his tongue over the slope where his neck meets his shoulder, teeth catching after.  
  
Stiles stifles a sound, panting into Derek’s ear. “Just—touch me,” he mewls, one of his knees nudging against Derek’s forearm where his hand has gone weak around Stiles’ weeping dick. “M’close.”  
  
“Yeah,” Derek hums, hand tightening to give something Stiles can fuck into. He strokes tight as he thrusts, giving a twist on the upstroke that makes Stiles sob into his hairline and chant out Derek’s name.  
  
“I’m gonna cum,” he chokes out in warning, stomach already going taut as his legs lock up. “Fuck,” he keens, eyes slammed shut as he coats Derek’s hand and stomach.  
  
He clenches down, making Derek groan into his shoulder. His thrusts go harried as Stiles goes limp against his chest, shoving in again and stilling as he fills the condom.  
  
Stiles swallows, rising up on his knees and letting him slip out. “Shit,” he hisses, swinging his leg over and falling down beside Derek’s flank.  
  
He makes a noise of content, breathing a deep sigh as he hits Derek’s stomach with the back of his hand weakly. “We need to get cleaned up,” Stiles murmurs, eyes already closed.  
  
Derek hums in agreement, sitting up to pinch the condom off and knot it. “I’ll be back,” he mutters, staggering up to walk to his bathroom. He throws it away, grabbing a towel off the rack. “Here,” he says when he comes back, wiping the spunk from his stomach off before he hands it to Stiles.  
  
“Thanks,” he slurs, dragging it down below his legs, cleaning off the lube from his ass.  
  
Derek crawls back into his bed, finding the pillows that Stiles had flopped on to after he left. “Just stay,” he sighs, watching through slanted eyes as Stiles tosses the towel into the corner.  
  
Stiles cuts him a look, already trying to sit up and get out to look for his clothes. “Are you sure?” He asks, just as quiet.  
  
Derek blinks at him and flips the corner of his duvet back, giving Stiles a space to move into. “Yeah,” he nods, closing his eyes to keep himself from watching how Stiles’ decision plays out.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles yawns, already tugging a pillow down under his head and laying down in the curve of Derek’s body. “So get a bigger bed, one that can hold all the things I still want to dream. But ready me a tiny corner in this one.”  
  
Derek snorts, poking his toe meanly into Stiles’ ankle.  
  
—  
  
Scott lifts his head up from the pillow when Stiles rushes in through the door to their dorm looking haggard and wrung out while he clutches his backpack in front of him.  
  
“How’d your all-nighter go?” Scott asks, yawning as he turns over. “Finish your essays?”  
  
“I fucked up,” Stiles blurts out, dropping the bag into the office chair.  
  
Scott rolls back over to face him, eyebrows scrunched together over his tired eyes. “What do you mean?” He questions and sits up, patting the space on his bed for Stiles to come over. “Did you spill a can of Monster on your laptop or something?”  
  
Stiles laughs, humorless and dry. “Or something,” he answers, crowding himself onto Scott’s mattress and tucking his knees to his chest.  
  
Scott nods, bumping his shoulder into Stiles’ for comfort as he waits him out.  
  
“I had sex with Derek,” Stiles says into his arms, chewing on his lip. “While we were high and a little drunk, and I left before he got out of the shower.”  
  
“Oh,” Scott acknowledges, blinking at the far wall. “So you guys didn’t talk about it.”  
  
“God, no,” Stiles confirms immediately. “I got dressed and grabbed my laptop and bolted out of there as soon as I woke up.”  
  
Scott’s face scrunches up as he finally turns to look at Stiles. “Dude, that’s fucked up.”  
  
“I _know_ that, Scott,” Stiles affirms, slumping further into himself.  
  
“No, I mean,” Scott tries and stops, sighing through his nose. “Why didn’t you just talk to him about it?”  
  
Stiles shrugs with his face still buried in the sleeves of his hoodie.  
  
Scott frowns, knowing he can’t force Stiles to do anything. He sighs and leans back against the wall, his arm coming down around Stiles’ shoulders.  
  
—  
  
Stiles wakes up in Scott’s bed, the comforter pulled over him. He blinks sluggishly at the back of Scott’s head where he’s bent over his computer with his headphones on, before he cranes his head to look at the digital clock.  
  
Seeing that it’s three in the afternoon, Stiles reaches into his pocket for his cellphone. The little screen doesn’t display any messages when he taps on the home button, just lights up and shows the date and time.  
  
Stuffing it back into his pocket he turns onto his side and closes his eyes again, lulled into sleep by Scott’s typing.  
  
—  
  
The second time he wakes up, Scott’s shaking his shoulder.  
  
“C’mon, dude,” he says, pulling Stiles into sitting upright. “You’ve got to eat something, and the mess hall’s going to be closing in an hour.”  
  
Stiles grumbles, standing, and slips his shoes back on, patting his pockets down to check he still had everything. “Sorry for stealing your bed,” he apologizes as he watches Scott grab his wallet and keys.  
  
Scott shrugs, following his out the door and locking up. “You needed it,” he dismisses. “But I need some tacos, so hurry up.”  
  
Stiles cracks a grin, quickening his stride down the hall.  
  
—  
  
On Sunday, Stiles edits his papers, finally moved to his own bunk.  
  
He eats lunch with Danny in Stern Hall’s cafeteria, listening to him complain about the calculus and engineering midterms that he’s studying for.  
  
“So,” Danny starts, stabbing his spoon into a pudding cup. “Got any plans for spring break?”  
  
“Sleep and play video games in my boxers,” Stiles slurs around the straw in his mouth. “So, basically, no.”  
  
“Huh,” Danny murmurs thoughtfully, stopping to look up at him.  
  
Stiles spits the straw out to make a face back at him. “What?”  
  
“I just thought you’d be hanging out with Derek,” Danny tells him, shrugging.  
  
“We don’t hang out,” Stiles balks, sitting up straighter.  
  
Danny snorts. “That’s not what Scott said.”  
  
“Why are you and Scott talking about my drug dealer?” Stiles hisses out, too aware of the groups of people at the tables around them.  
  
“Because he’s not really your drug dealer if he doesn’t charge you for anything,” Danny says and stands up, throwing his trash away on his way towards the exit’s double doors.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes, sliding his own tray into the garbage can. “See if I ever get you a dime bag again,” he mutters and heads for the soda machine for a refill.  
  
—  
  
Stacked and stapled, Stiles hands his essay into his Anthro professor and signs his name into her roster before she begins lecturing.  
  
“Burial rituals,” Smithson begins, jumping up to sit on the table in the front of the room. “Aren’t seen in the Hominids until Homo Sapien Neanderthalensis,” she finishes, powering up the overhead to show a picture of an excavation site.  
  
—  
  
Stiles sits in the middle of the row in the crowded lecture hall for history when Professor Holt comes in with a cellophane covered packet of papers fresh from the copy room, Derek holding the door open for him.  
  
“I’ve got the second test right here,” he announces in a loud yell, not bothering to set up the microphone for the auditorium. He turns to Derek, asking for something before he reaches into his pocket and hands Professor Holt a coin.  
  
Holt walks to a girl in the front row. “Call it,” he tells her. “You get it right, you can use your notes on this test.”  
  
Her response is too quiet for Stiles to hear, but whatever she picked makes the first three rows groan before Holt can even tell the rest of the class: “Turn in your notes!”  
  
Stiles hands his to the basketball player two seats over, and pretends to dig around his backpack for a scantron instead of watching Derek come up the aisles to collect them.  
  
—  
  
His notes are impeccably neat, aside from the haphazard doodles of eyes and disjointed lines that span the margins and headers of his college-ruled papers, snippets of prose that range between “The alarm clock becomes my enemy; I press snooze every few minutes,” and “If you stay we can / figure out how long it takes. / The way you kiss me around—” before it ends in a violent scribble that blacks out the rest of the line.  
  
In the back of his notes is a clean-cut scrawl of a Charles Bukowski excerpt in all-caps, clearly meant for its grader:  
  
_AND THEN THERE ARE SOME WHO_  
_BELIEVE THAT OLD_  
_RELATIONSHIPS CAN BE_  
_REVIVED AND MADE NEW_  
_AGAIN._  
  
_BUT_   **PLEASE**  
_IF YOU EVER FEEL THAT WAY_  
  
_DON’T PHONE_  
_DON’T WRITE_  
_DON’T ARRIVE  
  
—_  
  
The next day, Stiles drags his feet going to class.  
  
World Mythology’s bearable, he turns in his essay as his professor turns on the Disney version of Hercules with the instructions of explaining one of the references in at least five sentences. He writes about “that Oedipus thing,” over Charlton Heston’s opening lines.  
  
In American Lit he writes about the influence of growing up in an oppressive culture in his blue book, pulling quotes from Louise Erdrich’s “Indian Boarding School: The Runaways,” and Yusef Komunyakaa’s “Jasmine.” He’s one of the last ones out, too preoccupied with deciding between which lines to use in each paragraph.  
  
He ignores the quirked brow Professor Suzara gives him when he hands his booklet off to her, giving her a polite smile as he leaves.  
  
—  
“I’m just so glad that it’s spring break,” Stiles sighs happily when Scott comes back from his shower, toweling off his hair.  
  
“Same,” Scott agrees with a wide smile and falls into his office chair and opening his laptop to boot it up. “Me and Allison are going into the city tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh, sweet,” Stiles murmurs. “What’re you guys doing?”  
  
“Going to the Academy of Sciences,” Scott answers. “She wants to see their Human Odyssey exhibit.”  
  
Stiles perks up, leaning over the wood plank that bracket his bunk. “Yeah? That’s supposed to be really good, my Anthro professor keeps raving about it.”  
  
Scott nods, turning to type in his password and bring up Reddit. “That’s good, because getting from the BART station to the museum’s going to suck.”  
  
—  
Lydia falls into the seat next to Scott when they’re at lunch two days later.  
  
“Scott, Stiles,” she greets coolly, subtly grimacing at the plate of carne asada fries they’ve managed to concoct out of the mess hall’s options. She takes her purse off her arm, looking like she wants to set it on the table before she thinks better of it and keeps it in her lap.  
  
Stiles swallows his mouthful of guacamole and cheese. “Lydia,” he returns, stabbing his fork into the pile of fries. “To what do we owe the pleasure of you deigning to sit with us peasants? You break up with Jackson again?”  
  
Lydia sighs at him, unamused. “Please, be more bitter,” she implores sarcastically.  
  
Stiles ducks his head and stuffs his mouth full to make her squint her nose at him in disgust. “What do you want?” He asks, mid-chew.  
  
“I was going to ask you to be in the math tournament with me,” she admits, her neat brows still wrinkled at him. “But I’m starting to think I over-estimated your abilities.”  
  
“You totally did,” Scott confirms, taking a swig from his Mountain Dew.  
  
Stiles sits back, pushing the tray toward him. “I haven’t taken math since high school,” he claims, propping his chin up with his open palm. “Like, my AP scores cleared my math requirement.”  
  
“Exactly,” Lydia maintains with a curt nod. “Which means you got at least a five on them.”  
  
Stiles shrugs weakly, frowning at her. “You’re going to make me do math, aren’t you?”  
  
She smiles widely, lips painted with a vibrant red. “Yup,” she avows and reaches into the front pocket of her purse, pulling out a folded up sheet of paper. “That’s the study schedule,” Lydia tells him, tapping her painted nails against the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She stands fluidly from the bench, leaving them with a graceful swivel of her hips.  
  
“Dude,” Scott says, still eating. “You could’ve told her no.”  
  
Stiles rubs a hand tiredly over his face, shaking his head. “Yeah, like that’d work with her.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles shows up to the library, slipping into the private study room that Lydia reserved. She’s already standing at the back wall’s whiteboard, blue marker in her hand as she writes out an equation.  
  
“I made a review guide to get you up to speed,” she says, waving back to a thick stack of papers on the corner of the table.  
  
He picks it up, thumbing through the pages and glancing at Leibnez’s notation and graphs, along with wavelengths and antiderivatives. “Do I have to do any trig?”  
  
“No,” she dismisses, wiping her hands together as she looks at her answer. “You’re on my team for calculus,” she explains and turns to flip to the back of her textbook. “I’m doing quantum theory and physics.”  
  
“Oh, the easy stuff,” Stiles says sarcastically as he pulls off his backpack to look for his notebook. “When is the thing?”  
  
Lydia shoots him an unimpressed look and turns back to the board. “Look at your hand-out.”  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes at her back and looks at the sheet she gave him yesterday, seeing the date of the competition at the bottom. He sighs, sitting at the table and starts in on the packet she made him.  
  
—  
  
“How’s the math Olympics going?” Scott asks when he finds Stiles sitting on his bed with a beer bottle between his knees and playing Super Mario Sunshine.  
  
Stiles lolls his head back to look at him and shakes his head. “There is a reason I didn’t become a math major.”  
  
Scott nods, moving to sit next to him. “You got Mario Party on that emulator?”  
  
“I’m going to kick your ass at Boo’s haunted mansion, buddy.” Stiles says, already standing to close out of his game, tossing a controller back to Scott.  
  
—  
  
Lydia huffs a breath out, tapping the eraser on the paper as she levels a look at him. “Okay, what is it?” She demands, making Stiles look up from his volume by shell method problem.  
  
“What’s what?” He asks, blinking at her.  
  
“This,” she answers, flicking her pencil at him. “You’ve been staring at the same problem for the last minute and a half.”  
  
He shrugs at her and pulls his laptop over so he can google the formula. “My mind’s everywhere right now,” he murmurs in apology, clicking on a link and bringing up a page to copy down.  
  
Lydia hums, watching him for a few more moments before turning back to her own work.  
  
—  
  
Classes start back up again, launching Stiles back into his courses with the threat of finals coming up in another eight weeks.  
  
He goes to class, takes his notes, and tries to get back into a regular sleeping schedule as he stares blearily at his professors and tries to force himself to focus.  
  
—  
  
Lydia hums as she finishes looking over the practice test. “You’re getting better,” she allows with her red pen still in hand as she points to the marks she made. “But you’re still making mistakes.”  
  
“I’m not a math genius like you, Lydia.” Stiles sighs, his head still bowed into the crux of his forearms. “I’m going to make some mistakes.”  
  
She rolls her eyes and pushes the paper under his wrist, stabbing him with the corner. “I want you to get at least a ninety-eight.”  
  
Stiles sits up, glaring at the sheet. “I got an A,” he says, tapping his index finger against the 94% at the top. “Isn’t that enough?”  
  
Lydia shakes her head, zipping her pencil bag up as she stands. “Not when there’s people that will get a hundred,” she tuts. “I’ll see you for the last cram session on Thursday.”  
  
“Bye,” he says, watching her settle her purse onto her shoulder.  
  
“Keep studying,” she commands and leaves him alone in the cubicle.  
  
—  
  
His World Myth class moves on to Greek and Roman, which makes a lot of his classmates perk up in their seats.  
  
“Does anyone know the backstory for Tiresias? Why he’s the blind prophet throughout Oedipus and Antigone?” Pales asks as she leans on her podium, looking over the class.  
  
Stiles stifles a yawn against his wrist, glancing at everyone before he waves his hand up. “He became the prophet of Thebes after Zeus and Hera came to him to settle a debate between them. They were fighting about who had more pleasure during sex, and since Tiresias spent seven years as a woman, he was the perfect person to ask.”  
  
Pales nods along. “But how’d he become blind?” She prompts, urging him to continue.  
  
“He said women, and Hera claimed he was a liar and struck him down with it,” Stiles answers. “And Zeus in turn gave him clairvoyance as compensation.”  
  
“Open to 453,” Pales commands.  
  
—  
  
His Anthro class shows a video on the differences between Strepsirhines and Haplorhines, a British guy narrating in awe as he recounts the matrilineal society as a pair of bonobos rut against each other.  
  
A guy two rows behind him says “I told you we’re not supposed to be monogamous,” to whoever’s next to him, and Stiles rolls his eyes as he adds another bullet point to his notes.  
  
—  
  
He sits in the back for history and keeps his head down.  
  
The guy next to him is snoring gently, head precariously slumped forward at an awkward angle. Stiles nudges him, making him startle and sit up, but after five minutes of listening to Holt lecture about the plague he’s already back to sleep.  
  
Stiles tries jabbing him awake again, but the kid swats blindly at his pen and lays his head on the small, propped open desk that’s attached to all their theater seats.  
  
—  
  
On the Thursday cram session, Stiles looks over a problem on indefinite integrals that makes him sneer at just the thought of doing it.  
  
“Lydia,” he strains to where she’s bent over her own problems.  
  
“No,” she says without looking up. “Finish them and then you can leave. Not a moment before.”  
  
Stiles lolls his head back to frown at the ceiling. “You owe me a drink after all this is over,” he says and picks his pencil back up and starts punching the cosine into his calculator.  
  
She shrugs and circles something on her paper. “Only if you get me on to the next round.”  
  
—  
  
“I will literally skin you if you show up late or hungover or anything besides sober and fully rested,” Lydia says when he picks up his phone the day before the tournament.  
  
“I have perfect test-taking skills,” Stiles refutes.  
  
Lydia scoffs and Stiles imagines her shaking her head in disdain at having to deal with him. “Bright eyed and bushy tailed,” she quips and hangs up, leaving Stiles with the disconnected tone.  
  
“Who was that?” Scott asks, eyebrow quirked as he watches Stiles toss his phone away.  
  
Stiles smiles sarcastically as he tugs his hoodie off. “Lydia,” he answers. “Giving us lowly plebeians her sage advice.”  
  
Scott snorts and turns back to his laptop. “Well, she is a genius.”  
  
Stiles rubs a hand over his face, grabs his towel and his bottle of two-in-one. “I’m gonna go take a shower, dude.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles gets there on time, sliding into the seat next to Lydia before whoever’s administering the exam gets in.  
  
“Well, you’ve done one thing right so far,” she claims with a side-eye as she peers at all the pencils and erasers he pulls from his pocket.  
  
Stiles beams at her, setting his calculator down. “Your continued approval of me sets me aflutter,” he returns.  
  
Lydia shakes her head and presses her mouth into a thin line. “I just hope you’re ready,” she professes as the proctor comes in.  
  
—  
  
“How was it?” Scott asks when he gets back.  
  
Stiles falls face first into Scott’s bed, making an incomprehensible noise. He turns his head, and breathes a sigh. “I’m tapped out,” he says. “Too much math.”  
  
Scott nods sympathetically and stands to pull a water bottle from their mini-fridge. “Any math is too much math,” he empathizes, holding it out for him to take.  
  
“Amen, dude,” Stiles hails, snagging the bottle.  
  
“C’mon,” Scott prods, inclining his head to the door. “I’ll take you to Hubcaps for lunch.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles leans back in his chair, finished polishing off his burger. “You’re my absolute favorite,” he says around a burp.  
  
Scott shakes his head, shoving his fries into his strawberry shake. “It’s cool,” he dismisses casually. “You’d do the same for me if I got burnt out on something.”  
  
“You’re the best,” Stiles continues and reaches for his soda. “But I’m going to need so many beers later to ease my trauma from that much math.”  
  
“There’s not enough in the world for that,” Scott says solemnly with his mouth full.  
  
—  
  
“Come on,” Lydia says a week later, directing him into a door. “I won’t know the results for another three weeks, but I know you’re going to complain about that drink I owe you, so let’s get this over with.”  
  
The pub’s crowded and the floor’s littered with peanut shells, but Lydia makes her way to the bar and leans forward at the counter, catching the bartender’s eye. “He’ll have a pint of Guinness,” she orders with her wallet already out. “And I’ll take vodka cranberry.”  
  
Stiles sits next to her, watching in amazement as she manages to get served. “Holy shit,” he breathes when the dude moves away to fill a high ball.  
  
Lydia smirks, wiping the wood in front of her with a napkin. “Feminine charm,” she informs loftily and perches onto a barstool as the bartender comes back with their drinks.  
  
“With great power comes great responsibility,” Stiles jokes, and picks his beer up.  
  
Lydia takes a delicate sip from her drink and shakes her head at him. “Just don’t go on a bender,” she mutters into her glass.  
  
“No promises,” Stiles says as he licks the foam from his top lip. The look she cuts him after that makes him shrug dismissively. “Fine,” he concedes. “I’ll wait until the weekend like everyone else.”  
  
Lydia hums, rubbing her thumb against the mark her lipstick left on the glass. “Nothing on Greek row without me,” she sniffs delicately, still watching him.  
  
“Can do,” he nods and drinks more of the dark stout down.  
  
—

“You got anything due?” Scott asks when he comes in on Thursday to find Stiles milling about on his laptop listlessly, phone in his other hand as he types out a slow reply.  
  
Stiles shakes his head frowning, glancing down to the clock. “Nah,” he answers and slumps lower in his chair with a sigh. “Everything that was due before spring break was the end of a chapter,” he explains as his phone buzzes in his hand. “So I only have to worry about new material.”  
  
Scott falls into the chair next to him, seeing that Stiles has his Twitter feed up. “That’s something you should be happy about, dude,” he says and pushes back to swing to his side of the desk, waking his own laptop.  
  
“But I’m so bored,” Stiles whines back and scrubs a hand over his face. “I thought shit was supposed to get better once you stop smoking.”  
  
“That’s tobacco, dweeb,” Scott laughs. “And it does, everything’s just slow until finals right now.”  
  
Stiles makes an impotent grunting sound in the back of his throat and nearly slips out of his chair with how he’s low he’s seated. “What are you doing tonight, then?” Stiles asks as he picks himself back up, white-knuckled grip on the edge of the desk as he fights against gravity.  
  
“Date with Allison,” Scott replies, backspacing to the front page of Reddit and refreshing. “We’re going to karaoke.”  
  
Stiles laughs, finally able to see what TIL headline Scott clicked on. “You suck at singing, dude,” he dismisses.  
  
Scott shrugs. “She doesn’t, though,” he says. “Which is why it’ll be fun to watch her.”  
  
“God, you’re such a sap,” Stiles carps.  
  
“Jealous,” Scott whispers back, amused.  
  
“One hundred percent, dude.” Stiles nods sarcastically. “I totally am.”  
  
Scott smiles wryly. “At least you’re honest,” he quips back.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes, grabbing his wallet and keys. “I’m going to grab something to eat with Danny,” he calls on his way out the door. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
—  
  
Danny meets him on the steps to the dorm building, turning to head back to the street once he catches sight of Stiles coming towards him.  
  
“C’mon,” he beckons as Stiles gets up to him. “I want some Korean BBQ.”  
  
“Dude, no,” Stiles blanches. “Last time we ate there I thought I was going to die.”  
  
“I told you not to get the All You Can Eat,” Danny defends.  
  
Stiles sighs as they walk down Telegraph. “If I’m going to pay like twenty-three bucks for All You Can Eat, I’m going to eat my weight in marinated beef,” he contends.  
  
Danny shrugs, reaching out to press the button for the crosswalk. “Fine,” he shrugs. “What about we just eat at McDonalds?” He asks sarcastically  
  
“I’d go for a McFlurry,” Stiles laughs, nudging Danny when the light turns so they can walk across.  
  
Danny scowls, giving a shiver of disgust. “Chipotle?” He suggests. “It’s up another couple blocks.”  
  
“Uh, sure,” Stiles says. “I haven’t gone there in a while.”  
  
“Thank god,” Danny mutters as they weave around a group of people stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.  
  
—  
  
The girl behind the counter grimaces as soon as she sees Stiles at the beginning of the line, frowning at him as she presses the tortilla for Danny’s burrito.  
  
“You’re not going to get everything again, right?” She asks, holding up the line as she hesitates with her hand on the stack of tortillas.  
  
“No, just one,” Stiles assures her, feeling the curious look Danny shooting at him from where he’s at in front of the salsa options. “Steak, brown rice, black beans,” he lists off for her.  
  
Moving down in the line, Danny pays for his meal as Stiles saddles up to the register. “What was that about?” He asks as he watches Stiles swipes his card.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “Something with Derek,” he answers on a mutter and snags his drink and food off the counter.  
  
“Yeah?” Danny presses as he follows him to an open table.  
  
Stiles shrugs as he tears at the tinfoil covering. “I was high and wanted everything on my burrito,” he explains. “And it was a pain in the ass to roll, they had to use two tortillas.”  
  
Danny makes a face as he imagines it, chewing a bite off his own burrito.  “Are you talking to Derek again?” He asks, wiping his mouth of guac and pico de gallo.  
  
Stiles shakes his head, still chewing.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Danny tells him flatly.  
  
“I could have told you that,” Stiles acknowledges with a dry laugh.  
  
“I’m not helping you with your drama,” Danny insists.  
  
Stiles hums, reaching for a chip. “Right, because you’ve got drama of your own,” he says. “How are the double mint twins, by the way?”  
  
“Don’t,” Danny threatens, pointing at him over the top of his soda. “You’re in no position to judge me.”  
  
“Bet you’ve been in some interesting positions as of late,” Stiles grins now that the topic’s off of him.  
  
Danny sneers, half-heartedly tossing a handful of chips at Sties. “I’m not talking to you about this,” he hisses.  
  
“Fine,” Stiles relents with his hands raised in surrender before he moves to catch his burrito from falling over.  
  
“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Danny says, tonguing a bite of his burrito to the side of his mouth as he talks.  
  
Stiles chews, both his eyebrows raised silently in questioning.  
  
Danny shrugs. “Just because I don’t want to help you with your drama doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it,” he explains.  
  
“Are you only listening to it because you don’t have any drama to deal with and like the whole schadenfraude of mine?” Stiles asks, suddenly not interested in the rest of his food as he leans back in the chair to look at Danny fully, arms crossed over his chest.  
  
Danny smiles sheepishly. “Basically,” he agrees. “That and the fact that Derek came in while we were in line and turned tail once he noticed you were here.”  
  
Stiles’ eyes grow wide, head whipping around to look at the entrance behind him only to see a few people leaving with to go bags. “What?” He asks, turning back to stare at Danny.  
  
“You’re an idiot,” Danny repeats, crumbling up his now empty tin foil. “And you fucked up bad.”  
  
Stiles sighs, lips already pressed into a thin line. “It’s not entirely my fault,” he tries to defend himself, balling up the last quarter of his burrito and tossing it into his bag, standing up to go to the trash can with it. “He could have called me, he has my number.”  
  
Danny scoffs, following him with his own trash. “As I heard, you left without even seeing him the next morning,” he says as they leave, heading back towards campus.  
  
“Where the hell did you hear that?” Stiles demands, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.  
  
“From people,” Danny answers. “Scott, Erica, you,” he lists.  
  
Stiles stops short, staring at Danny when he stops too. “Erica?” He repeats, suspicious.  
  
Danny nods, shoulders going up in a half-assed shrug. “We still talk,” he offers. “Said that it looked like someone pissed in Derek’s cereal last time she saw him in the laundry room.”  
  
“When was this?” Stiles asks as they start walking again, stuck on the corner until the light changes.  
  
“I don’t know,” Danny says, pressing the crosswalk button. “Like a month and a half back?”  
  
Stiles flinches, grimacing at the thought. “I’m glad my fuck ups are so amusing to all of you,” Stiles huffs, his pacing picking up to leave Danny behind. “I’ll catch you later,” he offers over his shoulder in a half-hearted mumble.  
  
“Stiles!” Danny calls after him, hands cupped around his mouth as he watches Stiles jay-walk across the next street. “It’s not like that; we’re worried about you, asshole.”  
  
—  
  
He heads to the library instead of back to his dorm, not in mood to deal with Scott and his concerned eyes.  
  
Up on the third floor in the poetry section, Stiles pulls some books from the shelves at random, willing himself to get lost in any of the prose for a couple of hours as he finds an armchair to park himself in.  
  
He arranges the pile of books he’s collected, snagging the top one and cracking open Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz’s _The Year of No Mistakes_ to a random poem and starts reading, fingers tracing over the last few lines of “July,” at the bottom of the page.  
  
_“_ _How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart.  
How good it felt: to want something and   
pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.”_  
  
—  
  
Stiles leaves when a study group sit by him at the tables, making enough depreciating jokes about their grades in O-Chem for him to get irritated at the noise. He takes the books he worked through and returns them to the stacks, wasting a bit more time before he has to face Scott.  
  
—

“Hey,” Scott greets when Stiles bursts back into their room. “You okay? Danny texted me a heads up that you might be…” He trails off, flaps his hand vaguely as he looks between two button-ups that are lying on his bed.  
  
“I’m fine,” Stiles dismisses immediately. “You going somewhere?”  
  
Scott nods, deciding on the purple one. “Yeah, I told you, me and Allison are going to karaoke tonight.”  
  
“That’s perfect,” Stiles says with a smile. “Call her and tell her to invite Lydia, too.”  
  
Scott shoots him a confused look, hands frozen from where they were buttoning his shirt up. “Perfect for what?” He asks.  
  
“I don’t want to drink alone and I don’t want to go to some frat for a party,” Stiles explains. “So I’ll go to the karaoke bar with you guys.”  
  
Scott’s frowning at him, eyes pleading for Stiles to take pity on him. “Stiles,” he stresses. “I don’t want a double date.”  
  
“It’s not a double date,” Stiles scoffs. “It’s a sign I don’t have a drinking problem. We’re hanging out.” He picks up Scott’s phone from the desk, tossing to him. “Plus if I get drunk enough you can convince me to sing badly for your entertainment.”  
  
He stares Scott down until he sighs and unlocks his phone to call Allison.  
  
—  
  
Stiles is three vodka shots and an appletini in when Lydia pushes the massive booklet full of songs at him. “I was promised your singing,” she says, leaning on her hand and smiling like she knows how badly he’s going to embarrass himself. She casts a look to where Allison and Scott are at the booth, curled into one another. “It seems like the only entertaining thing that’ll happen tonight.”  
  
Stiles raises his eyebrow at her, empty beer bottle being handed off to the bartender when she comes back around to their end of the counter. “Not gonna berate me for not studying or something?” He asks, turning away from her to scope out the rest of the people at the bar.  
  
“Not about that,” she dismisses. “But I will when you’re more drunk.”  
  
“You choose,” he tells her pushing the book absently back towards her, distracted as he smiles at a blond that’s across the bar. “Just let me get another drink,” he says and licks his chapped lips.  
  
“Don’t,” she scolds him, rolling her eyes. “Stop flirting badly. You said you wanted to hang out with us, so you’re going to hang out with us.”  
  
Stiles stops, mouth twisted up at her. “I’m not trying to hook up,” he dismisses, even as he gets a drink placed in front of him by the bartender who jerks her head in the direction of who he’d been making eyes at before.  
  
Lydia rolls her eyes, but leaves it alone and opens the folio, manicured nails running over the titles. “You’re going to regret this,” she warns as she taps one.  
  
“Pick that,” Stiles grins, nodding emphatically. “Do that one, I know it.”

—  
  
“Are you ready to talk about it?” Lydia asks after Stiles has sung his third song, nursing a glass of water as she watches him down the rest of his watered down whiskey. Scott and Allison have long since left them, Lydia assuring them that she was more than capable of watching Stiles’ drunken ass. “Or are you going to drag this out?”  
  
“Talk about what?” Stiles asks, head tilted in confusion.  
  
Lydia rolls her eyes and motions for a refill. “Derek Hale,” she answers like he’s stupid and that he’s lucky she’s even stooping to his level.  
  
“Oh,” Stiles says. “That.”  
  
“Yes, that,” Lydia sighs and pushes the new glass of water in front of him in a silent command.  
  
Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I’m fine,” he declines and slurps the water through a straw, making Lydia grimace. “It’s not even really a thing. We hung out, slept together. Super casual and cool.”  
  
“Fine,” Lydia shrugs, blasé. “Your anal retentiveness better not fuck up my mathlete goals.”  
  
“You actually said mathlete,” Stiles laughs, delighted in his drunkenness. “And it won’t; I’m fine,” he repeats.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Stiles nods condescendingly. “You remember what I did when me and Jackson were taking a break?” She asks, suddenly changing the subject.  
  
Stiles hums around another mouthful of water. “Dabbled in lesbianism?” he guesses, only vaguely aware with how Matt had posted pictures of a Tri-Delta kegger with Kira and Lydia entwined together on some couch on the back porch before the album got deleted. He’s also assuming it was due to a mix of Lydia’s threat of legal action and Danny’s actual hacking.  
  
The bartender’s yelling out for last call, making Lydia slide out of their booth. “C’mon, I got a taxi,” she urges him with a little wave to the door. “There’s no way I’m walking home in heels at this time of night.”  
  
Stiles frowns as he goes, coming to a stop beside her at the curb. “Why do you ask?” He questions, hands tucked into his hoodie to stave off the cool night. “What’s Jackson got to do with anything?”  
  
“You know the saying,” Lydia says with a shrug. “Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” she explains as the taxi pulls up. “Or on top of, whatever your preference.”  
  
“What?” Stiles blinks at her, following her into the car.  
  
Lydia tells the driver her address before turning a tired look on to Stiles. “Go have “super casual and cool,” sex with other people,” she says, dumbing it down for him. “Get some perspective.”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” he yawns, tucking his body against the window.  
  
“I’m serious,” she presses on, undeterred with how close Stiles is to falling asleep. “We only have like six more weeks until summer.”  
  
“Not really,” Stiles slurs. “Because half my time will be devoted to your math study regime when you find out the scores next week.”  
  
The taxi takes a turn towards the suburbs as Lydia sighs at him. “I’ll reward you if you do well,” she promises.  
  
Stiles’ eyes blink open at that, mouth twisted up in confusion. “Why does this sound like I’ll get a BJ out of it?”  
  
She shrugs. “You might,” she answers ominously. “But not from me. I’ll introduce you to some people.”  
  
“… Okay,” Stiles agrees cautiously, watching the orange from the passing street lights flicker over her face.  
  
—  
  
Lydia wakes him the next morning when she insists that he come with her for a morning run. He groans, rolling over to shove his face into the back cushion of her couch.  
  
“C’mon,” Lydia goads above him. He refused to look at her, but he’s betting that her hands are on her hips as she looks on him in disdain.  
  
Stiles groans, waving her away. “Let me sleep,” he begs her. “It’s too early to be awake.”  
  
Lydia laughs at him and lightly kicks his lower back until he makes another horrid moaning noise. “You shouldn’t be hung over,” she reasons. “After all that water I made you drink before you went to sleep.”  
  
“I’m a statistical outlier,” he slurs, trying to wiggle away from her assault. “I’m hung over.”  
  
“Fine, shower before I get back at least. You smell like Midori,” she sighs.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles yawns, tucking the blanket around him even closer. “Sure.”  
  
“There’s a party at the ADPhi tonight, we should go,” Lydia says as she ties her hair into a high ponytail. “Danny’s going to go.”  
  
“I’d have to go back to the dorms,” Stiles mumbles. “I don’t have a change of clothes here.”  
  
“I’ll give you a ride after breakfast,” she offers, shoving her feet in to her trainers, heading to her front door.  
  
Stiles hums, hearing the lock slide out of place as she lets herself out.  
  
—  
  
“Here,” Lydia says as she hands off a red solo cup filled with a bright blue liquid to him. “That’s the only one you’re getting from me,” she says as he takes a sip and makes a face at the overwhelming taste of vodka. “Stick to beer and water after that.”  
  
Stiles sniffs at the drink, trying to parse out what had been mixed into it. “What’s in this?” He questions, following her through the kitchen to the back porch.  
  
“Vodka,” she answers with her attention obviously divided as she searches the backyard.  
  
“And?” He prompts, taking another pull from it.  
  
“And nothing,” she says as they move back into the house. “It’s just UV Blue.”  
  
Stiles sighs, shaking his head as he trails after her. “Looking for Danny?” He asks. “He’s here, right?”  
  
Lydia shakes her head, pulling him into the large living room. “Danny’s coming,” she promises. “But I wanted to introduce you to Jordan.”  
  
Stiles hums in acknowledgement, finishing his drink off as Lydia leans into a gaggle of some frat brothers to ask before she’s pulling him through the foyer and into another sitting room where the music is coming from.  
  
“There you are,” Lydia yells over the bass to a guy that’s leaning against the arm of one of the sofas. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she says as she hugs him, arm around his broad shoulders.  
  
“We?” He questions, shooting a look to Stiles before his gaze gives him a slow track up from his legs to his face.  
  
“Jordan,” Lydia says as she pulls back to make a motion to Stiles. “This is Stiles. Stiles, this is Jordan.”  
  
“Parrish,” He corrects with a smile, standing to shake hands briefly before he picks up the beer bottle that he’d been nursing when they came in. “Nice to meet you.”  
  
Stiles smiles, giving him a polite nod. “You a brother?” He asks, pointing to the room in general.  
  
“Yeah,” Parrish nods. “I pledged my freshmen year.”  
  
“Cool,” Stiles says.  
  
“Jordan’s a criminology major,” Lydia speaks up.  
  
“Oh,” Stiles blinks, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. “My dad’s a sheriff.”  
  
Parrish laughs, lifting his beer up to take a swig. “Yeah?” He asks. “He’s not worried about you going to ragers?”  
  
“With the things I did when I was a teenager?” Stiles grins. “Not at all.”  
  
“And what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?” Parrish asks and levers himself off the back of the couch to stand and move into Stiles’ space.  
  
“Danny’s here,” Lydia pipes up then. “I’m going to go find him,” she says, already stepping away from them to the archway that they came in from.  
  
Stiles frowns, watching. “Uhm…” He drawls, turning back to look at Parrish.  
  
He shrugs and drains whatever was left in his bottle before he drops it down on to a nearby end table. “Need a new one?” Parrish asks, nodding down to Stiles’ solo cup.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, glancing down at the empty cup he’s holding. “But I think I should switch to beer. This was literally just vodka.”  
  
“C’mon,” Parrish beckons with a jerk of his chin, leading Stiles to the kitchen. “Any preferences?”  
  
“What are the options?” Stiles asks as he watches Parrish start to dig through one of the coolers that’s littering the kitchen floor.  
  
Parrish hums, pushing ice out of the way to get to the bottom. “Pabst, that Petaluma IPA, some hard cider, and… Pyramid,” he answers. “At least in this one.”  
  
“IPA’s gross as shit,” Stiles claims, which makes Parrish laugh. “Give me Angry Orchard if that’s the hard cider.”  
  
“Here,” Parrish says as he hands off the bottle, grabbing Pabst for himself before he lets the top slam back shut.  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles acknowledges as he throws his cup in the trash and reaches for the beer, watching as Parrish fiddles with a string that’s attached to the cooler’s handle, a bottle opener attached to its opposite end. He pops the cap off the Pyramid for Stiles, holding on to the neck of it, cold finger overlapping with Stiles’ warm ones.  
  
“There,” he declares as he lets the flimsy strip of metal drop.  
  
Stiles swallows dryly, eyebrow arched in questioning as he watches Parrish reach for the bottle he’d left on the counter. “Not gonna get yours?” He asks, nodding to it.  
  
“Mine’s twist off,” Parrish laughs and lifts the hem of his t-shirt, exposing his stomach and the line of his treasure trail as he uses it to grip the cap and yank it off with a jerk of his wrist.  
  
Stiles snorts and brings the bottle to his lips. “Subtle,” he mutters and takes a sip.  
  
Parrish grins, flicking the cap away with his thumb. “Is that what you’re looking for?” He asks, back in Stiles’ space.  
  
“No,” Stiles answers, staring back at him.  
  
Parrish hums at that, grin still wide on his face as he watches Stiles, gaze dropping to his mouth before he backs down. “You play beer pong?” He asks, motioning behind Stiles, where a game is set up in the dining room.  
  
Stiles shakes his head. “Badly,” he answers as he watches some other frat brothers aiming up the shot before they miss. “You wanna go to the back porch?”  
  
“I thought Lydia was finding one of your friends?” Parrish asks, head tilted.  
  
“Nah,” Stiles rejects easily. “She’s not wondering where I am.”  
  
Parrish nods, giving a half-shrug. “Just as long as you’re sure,” he allows, back to grinning. “Don’t want anyone to think I’m stealing you away.”  
  
“Criminology majors steal?” Stiles gasps mockingly, but he’s already edging toward the French doors that lead to the backyard.  
  
“Mostly music,” Parris says with an easy laugh and hoists the door open, nodding Stiles ahead of himself.  
  
The deck’s scattered with some people, mostly smokers that are talking amongst themselves in clumps, tapping their ash carelessly to their feet.  
  
Parrish walks past them to the short set of stairs, leading Stiles onto the dry lawn. “There’s a seating area by the tool shed,” he says, pointing to the small shack in the corner of their backyard, a brick patio next to it with a wrought iron table and grill.  
  
“Cool,” Stiles offers with a shrug, following behind and taking small sips from his beer.  
  
“So, what’s your major?” Parrish asks with a grin as he pulls a chair out, grating harshly against the patio before he plunks himself down to sit.  
  
“English,” Stiles answers and does the same, sitting next to him.  
  
Parrish makes a noise, smirking at him.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes, but laughs anyway. “Yeah, I know,” he sighs. “”What are you going to do with that? Teach?”” He recites, quoting some questions he’s gotten before.  
  
“Nah,” Parrish dismisses, shaking his head. “It’s cool, do whatever makes you happy, right?”  
  
“Sure,” Stiles smiles, knocking his knee against his. “I make no decision based on panic… Nothing is against me.”  
  
Parrish makes a nose in acknowledgement, eyebrow quirked. “What?” He asks, licking cheap beer from his lips as his puts his empty bottle on the table top.  
  
“It’s from a Buddy Wakefield poem,” Stiles murmurs quietly, suddenly shy as he looks down to his bottle and starts thumbing the label off of it. “It’s just something I do when I’m drunk.”  
  
“Oh, cool,” Parrish says politely.  
  
“Sorry,” Stiles says and downs the rest of his beer. “I forget not everyone likes it.”  
  
Parrish grins. “It’s fine,” he promises. “I’m sure most people wouldn’t want to hear me talk about the statutes of limitations for something like stolen art or whatever.” He leans back in his chair, arms resting over his head lazily. “It’s cute, though,” he says. “That you can do that.”  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles laughs. He lets the silence drag as they look at one another. “You got a room here?” He asks quietly, glancing between Parrish’s mouth and the frat house behind them.  
  
Parrish nods, standing easily. “Yeah,” he answers. “Up on the third floor.”  
  
“Lead the way,” Stiles waves, standing to follow after him.  
  
—  
  
“Stiles, wake up,” Parrish commands, shaking his shoulder.  
  
Stiles blinks sluggishly at him. “What time s’it?” He asks, sitting up and stretching.  
  
“Like seven-thirty,” Parrish answers and throws Stiles’ shirt at him. “I’ve got to go to crew practice, so I’m kicking you out.”  
  
Stiles shrugs and puts it on. “You wanna get my briefs, too?” He asks, nodding to where they are on the floor.  
  
Parrish tosses them over and busies himself with unplugging his phone and grabbing his wallet as Stiles gets dressed. He pulls his jeans up, buckling his belt.  
  
“You see my stuff?” Stiles questions as he looks around the room.  
  
“On the dresser,” Parrish says, nodding to the chest of drawers past him.  
  
Stiles spins around and sees his wallet and phone on the corner with a collection of trophies, loose change, and empty water bottles. He pockets them as Parrish opens his bedroom door, basically ushering him out.  
  
“Sorry for making you do the walk of shame,” Parrish says once they’re out on the sidewalk, about to part ways as Stiles turns toward the dorms and Parrish angles himself to where the Phys. Ed. Department is on campus.  
  
Stiles shrugs. “It’s fine,” he says on a yawn, already gearing up to walk away.  
  
“Hey,” Parrish calls out to him. “You aren’t gonna give me your number?”  
  
Stiles spins on his heel to look at him. “You want it?” He asks, brow raised.  
  
“Well, yeah,” Parrish nods, phone open to the keypad in his hand. “Unless you don’t want to give it to me?”  
  
“Uhm,” Stiles stutters, carding a hand through his hair sheepishly. “It’s 925-555-0181.”  
  
Parrish taps it in, saving it with a few swipes. “Great,” he smiles. “I’ll text you, so you’ll have my number, too.”  
  
“Great,” Stiles repeats with a nod.  
  
—  
  
Stiles sneaks past Scott’s sleeping form when he lets himself into their dorm room. He takes his jeans off again and climbs the ladder to his top bunk, plugging the charger into his dead phone.  
  
It buzzes with messages from Lydia and Danny, wanting to know what happened last night. He ignores them, setting an alarm for 12:30 and rolls over to take a nap.  
  
—  
  
“Were you with a vampire last night?” Scott asks when Stiles comes back from the bathroom.  
  
“Yeah, practically,” Stiles laughs, touching one of the hickies that’s high up on his neck. “Lydia took me to the ADPhi party, so.”  
  
Scott spins a circle in his desk chair, twirling a pen. “Cool,” he drawls. “Wanna play some Speedrunners? Steam had it 50% off.”  
  
“Gimme a minute,” Stiles replies, reaching for his phone. “Lydia is probably going crazy because I haven’t texted her back.”  
  
Scott hums patiently. “I’ll set it up, no rush,” he dismisses, turning to grab the Xbox controllers.  
  
FROM: Lyds  
I’m assuming that you and  
Jordan hit it off?  
  
Stiles snorts down at the screen, Scott puttering around in the background as he boots up Steam. He brings up the camera app, snapping a picture of the bruises on his neck and sending it off to her.  
  
TO: Lyds  
He asked me for my number, too.  
  
The grey speech bubble flickers up briefly before he gets a reply.  
  
FROM: Lyds  
You don’t sound too happy about that.  
  
TO: Lyds  
Eh.  
  
He sends the unamused emoji and then throws his phone on the bed before he sits down next to Scott and grabs a controller.  
  
“Do you have Markiplier on here?” Stiles asks when Scott selects the multiplayer.  
  
—  
  
Smithson hands their essays back on Monday before she brings out a skull model with a pronounced sagittal crest, lecturing about the bone structure and how it supported the muscles needed to facilitate the jaw’s motions.  
  
Stiles contemplates skipping out on History, but he knows he’ll regret it because he doesn’t even know who to ask for good notes. He sighs as he packs his notebook into his backpack, already tiredly deciding that he has to go.  
  
Between the forty minute break he curses Holt as he makes his way to the lecture hall under the library.  
  
—  
  
Stiles looks up when someone slips into the seat next to him, and he panics for half a second thinking it’s Derek before he realizes that it’s a girl in his class.  
  
“Hi,” she greets, smiling at him and holding her hand out in greeting.  
  
Stiles warily slips his hand into her’s. “Hi?” he offers back, still skeptical.  
  
“I’m Caitlin,” she says, still grinning at him. “Can I ask what you got on the test?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Stiles answers. “I didn’t check my grade over the weekend.”  
  
Her smiles drops as she purses her lips at him, humming in consideration. “Well, they’re getting handed back today, so I guess we’ll see then.”  
  
Stiles shrugs and rolls his eyes and goes back to playing Candy Crush on his phone.  
  
—  
  
When class starts, Holt and Derek come in with their exams and notebooks.  
  
“Bear with us as we pass these back,” Holt says over the static squeal of the auditorium’s microphone. “Just listen for your name and raise your hand when you hear it. That’s how we’re taking roll today, too.”  
  
Stiles puts his phone away, slouching in his seat as he waits for his name  to be called, watching as other people get their stuff back.  
  
Caitlin grabs her stuff back, flipping open her notebook to see the exam tucked inside of it, the grade written in red sharpie at the top of the scantron. She sighs loudly, making Stiles look at her.  
  
“Eighty-nine,” She mutters, holding it up for him to see. “So goddamn close to an A.”  
  
Stiles nods in sympathy. “Yeah, that’s tough,” he says in acknowledgement. “But if you have a good notebook grade then it shouldn’t hurt you too much.”  
  
She shrugs at him and shoves it into the front folder flap of her notebook, settling in to wait for class to begin.  
  
“Stilinski!” Derek yells out from the bottom of the stairs, near the bottom of his stack.  
  
Stiles sits up, hand raised in the air even though Derek’s already looking straight at him as he climbs up the staircase. He shimmies out into the aisle to meet Derek half way.  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles mumbles when Derek shoves his notebook into his hands and walks away, calling out another name as he goes.  
  
“So, what’d you get?” Caitlin asks him when he gets back to his seat.  
  
“I don’t know, hold on,” he tells her, yanking his scantron out from where it’s sandwiched in his notebook. He hands it over to her, already thumbing through his notes to get to the last page he’d used before spring break.  
  
“Jesus fuck,” Caitlin breathes, looking at the 97% that’s circled on it. “Did you blow the TA to get this or what?”  
  
“What?” Stiles asks, suddenly more alert as he turns toward her.  
  
“I said: “Did you blow the TA to get this grade or what?”” She repeats with the same joking lilt, thinking that he just didn’t hear her.  
  
Stiles shakes his head, forcing a laugh even though his skin feels too tight and the smile too strained. “If I did, I would’ve gotten more than a ninety-seven.”  
  
Caitlin laughs, slapping his scantron back onto his desk. “You seem to think highly of your BJ skills,” she chuckles.  
  
Stiles slouches in his seat, crossing his arms and kicking his feet up to the back of the chair in front of him. “I didn’t get any complaints Saturday night,” he grumbles, watching Holt set up his computer so he can use the projector.  
  
“No, but, really,” Caitlin says, ignoring him. “What’s your studying look like? Do you want to make a study group?”  
  
“Writing physical notes help me,” Stiles shrugs in answer. “I’ll study with you if you want, though.”  
  
“Cool,” she grins.  
  
—  
  
“Not toking is horrible,” Stiles grumbles around the string from his hoodie, chewing on the aglet as he watches Scott strafing as he plays Doom. “I’m so bored, there’s nothing to do on weekends now.”  
  
“There’s plenty of things to do,” Scott says. “Like, for instance, right now you’re whining.”  
  
Stiles kicks at him, knocking Scott’s shoulder which makes his sprite run into an imp.  
  
“I’m going to do my reading for history,” he decides, reaching for his textbook and notes.  
  
—  
  
“The results are posted,” Lydia says when Stiles answers, coming out of World Myth.  
  
“Yeah?” He asks, shouldering his phone as he tugs the strap of his backpack up. “What’s it say? We moving on to the next round?”  
  
“I haven’t looked yet,” Lydia breathes quietly over the phone. “I wanted to do it with you, that way you’ll be near enough to throttle just in case we didn’t.”  
  
Stiles snorts down the speaker, imagining her filing her nails into points for the exact purpose of terrifying him. “Sure,” he nods. “I’m in the Humanities building right now, meet up in the commons?”  
  
“I’ll see you in twenty,” she tells him and hangs up.  
  
—  
  
Lydia hands him her phone, shoves it into his hand when she walks up to him. “You read it,” she commands. “I already loaded the page.”  
  
Stiles shrugs, looking down at the screen. The state seal heads the page with some title about the collegiate board before he scrolls down, seeing the list of groups being pushed forward into the next bracket.  
  
“It’s under your name, right?” Stiles double checks, already seeing the name listed alphabetically.  
  
“Yes,” she answers, mouth pursed as she watches Stiles. She crosses her arms and taps her foot impatiently. “Just tell me yes or no, don’t try to pretend like we didn’t get in if we did.”  
  
Stiles laughs, smiling at her. “Fine, we got in,” he grins and hands her back the phone.  
  
“We got in?” She repeats, looking down at the screen to double-check that Stiles is right.  
  
“Your genius has once again been verified,” he grins.  
  
“Not yet,” Lydia dictates staunchly. “I’m not satisfied until we win it.”  
  
Stiles sighs, rolling his eyes. “I’m assuming you’ve already got a new studying regime and packets to give me.”  
  
Lydia smiles and reaches into her purse, pulling out a stack of papers. “It’s like you know me,” she beams at him as she hands it over. “Your weekends are mine now.”  
  
“You know I have to study for my other classes, right?” Stiles asks as he thumbs at the corner of the stack.  
  
“You’re taking general ed.,” Lydia shrugs. “I’m only asking for Sundays.”  
  
Stiles frowns petulantly and puts the packet into his bag. “It still cuts into my procrastination time,” he maintains.  
  
She rolls her eyes at him, already turning to leave. “I’ll see you on Sunday, don’t be late.”  
  
—  
  
“On the bright side,” Stiles begins. “With only taking four classes and having spring break after midterms, no one wants essays from me until finals.”  
  
Scott makes a distressed noise from his bunk before he rolls over, flopping on his back with a sigh. “Don’t talk to me about finals right now, dude.” He sighs, arm thrown over his eyes. “I have an in-class final and a lab final with Biology, and I don’t want to even think about it until I absolutely have to.”  
  
“Gross,” Stiles offers in solidarity.  
  
“At least they’re not essays,” Scott says, twirling a finger in the air sarcastically.  
  
“But they’re math, and balancing reactants and empirical formulas,” Stiles defends with his nose scrunched up in disgust. “I will take essays over math any day of the week.”  
  
“Says the dude that’s in a math competition,” Scott laughs.  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Stiles hisses. “I’m trying not to think about how I have assigned math homework even though I’m not in a math class.”  
  
“You see her tomorrow,” Scott says, giving a stretch. “You better get started on what she wants you to finish.”  
  
Stiles groans impotently, knowing that Scott’s right. “I don’t want to,” he whines, even as he sits up and starts moving toward his bunk’s ladder, climbing down to get to his backpack.  
  
“It could be worse,” Scott consoles. “At least you’re busy; you could be doing nothing and bored out of your mind.”  
  
“Thanks for being my constant ray of sunshine, Scotty.” Stiles smiles sarcastically and audibly thumps the packet onto his desk, sitting down to get started.  
  
—  
  
“We have three weeks until the final leg of the competition,” Lydia tells him, looking over one of the packets she gave Stiles on Tuesday. “It’s right before finals.”  
  
Stiles makes a face, and Lydia firmly ignores him as she continues grading. “You’re lucky I’m not up to my eyes in essays,” he says. “I took four English classes at once like two semesters back and it was awful.”  
  
Lydia hums in acknowledgement. “You just have a bunch of required reading and lectures to go to,” she carps. “Cry me a river.”  
  
“Ruthless,” Stiles accuses sarcastically. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t have a lot to do since I’m only taking bare minimum to be full time.”  
  
“Which is why you should be studying more and scoring higher on these,” Lydia criticizes when she hands him back the packet.  
  
Stiles rolls his eyes and takes it back, looking at his mistakes. “You’re going to keep pushing me until I get a hundred, aren’t you?”  
  
“Yup,” Lydia smiles, condescendingly patting him on the arm. “You’re lucky I’m only asking for your Sundays.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles splits his time between his Anthropology and History textbooks, thankful that World Myth’s moved on to stories that he’s at least familiar with to get away with not reading.  
  
Anthropology’s moved to types of evolution and population genetics, focusing on the progression of bone structure between the hominids.  
  
“Dude,” Stiles says to Scott when he comes back from classes on Monday. “I so get why your girlfriend’s an Anthro major now.”  
  
“Yeah?” Scott asks, slipping his backpack off his shoulders.  
  
“This shit’s so interesting,” he breathes, holding his book open, showing the diagram for the Founder effect.  
  
Scott laughs and leans over so he can see it clearer. “You thinking of switching over?” He jokes.  
  
“No way in hell,” Stiles rejects. “I have too many credits toward English, I’m not spending more money to sit in classes with freshmen and juniors.”  
  
“Amen to that,” Scott nods solemnly.  
  
—  
  
“So, I study better when I have someone to study with,” Caitlin says as she taps her number into Stiles’ phone in class on Thursday. “And I figure if we compile our notes, we’ll have overlap and cover anything either of us missed.”  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Stiles nods. “I’m like halfway through the required reading for the final.”  
  
“You’re a stronger human being than me,” Caitlin asserts, tapping her pen against her notebook idly as more people trickle in.  
  
“I’m in that math tournament,” he sighs. “I have to study for that too, so I’m getting through everything else while I have time before finals.”  
  
“I thought you were an English major,” Caitlin hums, brow raised. “Why are you in a math tournament?”  
  
Stiles exhales loudly, slumping in his seat. “My friend wants to add the accomplishment to her long list of accolades, and she needed at least one more person on her team, so.” He makes a vague hand movement. “I am that second person. And my Sundays aren’t free for another two weeks.”  
  
Caitlin shrugs. “That’s fine, I need to study for my oceanography class anyway since that’s the first final I have.”  
  
“When even is the final for this class?” Stiles mutters, pulling his syllabus out.  
  
“9AM on Wednesday,” Caitlin answers him.  
  
“Oh, cool,” Stiles says. “This is the last one I have to take, then.”  
  
—  
  
FROM: 1-510-555-2138  
hey, are you free this weekend?  
  
FROM: 1-510-555-2138  
it’s parrish btw  
  
Stiles frowns down at his phone, fiddling with it as he sighs and debates with himself whether he should decline or ignore it or agree to go out.  
  
TO: 1-510-555-2138  
Lydia has occupied my Sundays  
with studying for the math comp.  
And I need to finish some reading  
so I can stay on top of it all. Sorry.  
  
FROM: 1-510-555-2138  
No problem, maybe next week? :)  
  
TO: 1-510-555-2138  
Yeah, I’ll let you know if I’m free.  
  
—  
  
“What is it?” Lydia demands, reaching out to touch Stiles’ arm, making him stop tapping his pencil against the table. “You’ve been staring into space for a while now.”  
  
“Parrish asked me out,” Stiles answers, scrubbing a hand over his face.  
  
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Lydia asks, leaning back in her chair to look at him fully.  
  
Stiles shrugs and matches her posture, trying to wake himself up. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I don’t think so.”  
  
Lydia hums and brushes her hair behind her ear. “You told him no,” she maintains.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles nods. “I told him no,” he sighs and looks back at his packet. “I don’t really want to date anyone right now.”  
  
“Because of Derek?” She asks, making Stiles frown immediately.  
  
“No,” he lies. “In general, I don’t want to date anyone.”  
  
“Good,” Lydia clucks. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re all distraction right now. Focus on this.”  
  
Stiles wheezes a laugh, thankful that Lydia isn’t handling him with kid gloves even though she’s fully aware of his goings on. “Okay,” he nods, grabbing his pencil with determination. “Let’s get some recognition at kicking everyone else’s asses.”  
  
—  
  
Smithson hands the review for the final out on Monday, walking through the cramped aisles as she talks about it. “Before you ask, it will be cumulative,” she says before she takes any questions. “The final is slotted for Tuesday at 12PM, and you’ll get two hours for it,” she informs them and moves back to the front of the class.  
  
“I’m giving you the last two classes before finals for any questions you can’t figure out between the review guide, your peers, and textbook,” she finishes. “Now, any questions?”  
  
Someone behind Stiles raises their hand before Smithson calls on them. “Is the final going to be the same format as the midterm?”  
  
“Yes,” Smithson answers. “Exactly the same.”  
  
Stiles frowns at this, remembering the open ended questions that were just thirty-five fill-in-the-blanks before a short essay question. He sighs and reads over the first page of the review guide and writes the de facto due date and the time of the final at the top.  
  
—  
  
“C’mon,” Scott says when he comes back from his classes on Thursday. “I need to de-stress.”  
  
Stiles looks up from the YouTube video he’d been watching, pausing it. “What’d you have in mind?” He asks from his bed.  
  
“John’s Ice Cream has dollar scoops,” Scott beams, eyes wide and happy at the thought of it. “It’s on Shattuck.”  
  
“Hell yeah,” Stiles crows, sitting up to start scooting out of his bunk. “It’s getting to be hot as balls in the dorms, I’m so down with ice cream.”  
  
Scott laughs, opening the door and walking out. “Yeah, the muscle tanks are starting to make appearances,” he agonized, frowning. “All the farmer’s tans are very apparent when they come into the health center.”  
  
“At least they’re not telling you to look at their dick to check for bumps,” Stiles muses as the make their way down the stairs and out of the dorm hall.  
  
“That’s because I’m pre-vet,” Scott defends. “The most they let me do is lab work and poke needles into people.”  
  
“Cool,” Stiles enthuses and Scott bumps shoulders with him as the start walking toward the street.  
  
“We’ve got finals soon,” Scott says. “And then summer and freedom for three months.” He stretches his arms into the air, wide smile on his face. “I’m so glad the semester’s almost over.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles nods along. “I’m not looking forward to packing everything up and moving out, though.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s gonna be a bummer,” Scott sighs.  
  
—  
  
Lydia hands him another set of packets when they meet on Sunday. “It’s crunch time,” she tells him. “So you’re getting more of these and I want to start studying for at least an hour a day until the competition.”  
  
Stiles whines from the back of his throat, making a face at her. “Do you ever have class? Have homework? Sleep more than three hours a night?” He asks, waving his arms maniacally.  
  
“I sleep eight hours a night,” Lydia replies, deliberately obtuse. “I have class until four every day, so we’ll meet at five every day from now until the competition, since it’s next Friday.”  
  
“I am sleeping the entire weekend straight once this is done,” Stiles grumbles, getting to work on the top of his pile.  
  
“Crunch time,” Lydia repeats ominously. “This will look good for you, too.”  
  
“I know,” Stiles laments.  
  
—  
  
Professor Suzara asks them to prepare possible essay questions for next week, so the class can vote on what could possibly show up on their final.  
  
Stiles hums, listening to her lecture about the beliefs of the Maori and how that’s reflected in their mythology as he starts scribbling down his questions into the World Myth section of his notebook.

  1. Compare and contrast the representation of death in two different traditions.
  2. How is Joseph Campbell’s theory of the monomyth proven? How is it disproven?
  3. Analyze the origin of man and how it reflects the beliefs of the tradition.



“The Maori believe that cooking something changes the essence of the being,” Suzara is explaining to the class. “Which is why they had a large practice of cannibalism,” she continues. “As a final act of revenge, Maori warriors would cook and consume their enemies after conflicts.”  
  
“Gross,” someone says from the front of the room and Stiles frowns in agreement.

—  
  
Stiles shoves fries into his mouth and moans in relief. “I hate math,” he says around his mouthful. “So much. So, so, so, so, so much.”  
  
Danny subtly scoots away, trying to get out of the splash zone. “Then why’d you agree to it?”  
  
“Because it means Lydia will be indebted to me later,” Stiles answers easily. “I could use that later in life. For all we know, she’s going to become the youngest CEO at google and then need some English major to read over all her ads.”  
  
“That’s wishful thinking,” Scott laughs.  
  
“I don’t think it is,” Stiles disagrees.  
  
“Yeah, no,” Danny nods. “I’m with Stiles on that one. Lydia’s going to rule the world, it’s just a matter of time and how she decides to do it.”  
  
Stiles nods and shoves more into his mouth, making Scott recoil in disgust.  
  
“I am sleeping for three days straight after I’m done with the competition,” Stiles assures. “Like straight through the weekend.”  
  
“When is the thing?” Scott asks as he picks the green peppers off his pizza.  
  
“Next Friday,” Stiles answers.  
  
“You can’t sleep for three days, there’s finals after,” Scott frowns.  
  
“Don’t rain on my dreams, man,” Stiles drawls. “I’m gonna sleep and play a lot of Skyrim and like have the longest masturbation session ever to make up for all this stress.”  
  
“That is way too much information,” Danny says before he picks his tray up and stands to leave. “I’ll see y’all before move day,” he parts with a wave and heads toward the trash bins.  
  
“Just kick me out when you need to,” Scott implores with sage understanding. “Treat yo’ self and all that.”  
  
—  
  
“The limit does not exist,” Stiles quotes as he works through a problem with Leibniz’s notation.  
  
“Yeah, you’re on your way to being Cady Heron,” Lydia begins primly. “Math competition and all.”  
  
“If I’m Cady, then you’re Regina,” Stiles defends. “Except I’ve absolutely never wanted Jackson.”  
  
Lydia rolls her eyes. “Four for you, Glen Coco,” she says sarcastically. “Now get back to work.”  
  
“Yes ma’am,” Stiles salutes. “I think I’m getting better at these, I think.”

“Good,” she nods passively, placating him.  
  
—  
  
The phone rings three times before someone picks up, a gruff “Hello?” sounding over the speaker.  
  
“Hey, dad,” Stiles greets. “Did I wake you up?” He asks, chewing his lip as he thinks about not knowing his dad’s work schedule anymore.  
  
“No, no,” the Sheriff responds. “I just got off from a shift s’all.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” Stiles sighs in relief. “How is everything in Beacon Hills? Keeping the ne’er-do-wells behind bars and the good people safe?”  
  
His dad’s laugh sounds over the line, warm and full. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Crime’s already down 17% since you left for college.”  
  
Stiles gasps in abjection. “Rude,” he says, all mock-hurt. “I’ll have you know I’m a fine, upstanding citizen.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” the Sheriff grumbles. “Is there a reason you called, son?”  
  
“I can’t just call my pops and see how things are going in my hometown?” Stiles asks, laughing.  
  
Silence drags over the line, the faint sound of things thumping in the background. “Are you okay, Stiles?” He asks quietly.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles lies easily. “Totally, my classes are going great and I’m helping Lydia out with some math competition, so I’ve been really busy over the last coup—”  
  
“Stiles,” the Sheriff butts in tiredly. “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”  
  
Stiles sighs raggedly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m fine,” he assures. “It’s nothing.”  
  
“It’s not nothing,” his dad hums over the line. “If it’s bothering you, it’s something.”  
  
“Have you ever done something stupid while drunk?” Stiles asks, distractedly pulling at the string dangling from his sleeve, bracing himself for his dad’s answer.  
  
“Nothing I couldn’t apologize for later,” the Sheriff breathes. “What happened? Are you in trouble?”  
  
“No, no, I’m not in trouble with the law. I don’t need a lawyer,” Stiles says hurriedly, trying to quell his worry. “Nothing like that.”  
  
“Then what is it like?” He asks, the fountain running in the background.  
  
Stiles makes a noise, trying to think of how to word it for his dad. “I had drinks with someone—neither of us were drunk, I think, because we’d only had one drink,” Stiles starts rattling off. “But we fooled around and I don’t know if they really wanted to, or if they were just trying to get off and I was convenient.”  
  
“Is this about the Hale boy?” His dad asks, making Stiles splutter incredulously.  
  
“Why’d it be about him?” Stiles asks. “I barely know him.”  
  
The Sheriff huffs. “Sure you don’t,” he replies, dubious. “Did you talk to them after?” He asks, playing along.  
  
“No,” Stiles cringes. “He’s been avoiding me,” he lies and gives up on trying to play the pronoun game. “I tried to talk to him and tell him it’s cool, that I didn’t want more.”  
  
“But you do,” his dad interrupts. “Son, I told you this when you were nine and you stuck gum behind your ear trying to be Violet Beauregarde and I had to shave your head that first time: just tell the truth. In every instance.”  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles mutters in agreement.  
  
The silence drags again as the Sheriff sighs. “If you’re upfront and honest, and he’s still an asshole: forget about him,” he advises. “You deserve someone better than that.”  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles says miserably. “I’ll remember that.”  
  
“Sure, son,” his dad grumbles. “You can call me any time, you know that, right?”  
  
“Yeah, dad,” Stiles nods. “I actually called to remind you that moving day is the Saturday after finals.”  
  
“I know,” the Sheriff replies. “I have the reminder still hanging on the fridge.”  
  
“You’re the best dad ever,” Stiles confesses around a yawn.  
  
“I know, I have a mug to prove it and everything,” he replies. “Get some sleep, son.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I should go to bed early tonight,” Stiles agrees. “I’ll see you next a couple weeks, dad.”  
  
—  
  
Holt is still working through the last few years in the second half of the 16th century on Tuesday, assuring everyone that he’ll get to 1604 in their last class time together.  
  
“When are you free this week?” Caitlin asks, pen in hand and her day planner open on her desk.  
  
“I’m not free until Friday,” Stiles tells her distractedly, taking down notes. “It’s crunch time before the math thing, because the test is Friday, so either that day after ten, or sometime during the weekend.”  
  
“I’ve already got a study group on Friday,” Caitlin says and Stiles quietly sighs with relief. “So maybe Saturday?” She questions. “The Denny’s on Powell does a thing for finals where you pay like twenty bucks and you can sit there all day and get free fries and coffee. And they’ve got free Wi-Fi.”  
  
“I am so down for fries right now,” Stiles announces dreamily. “Yeah, I can do that,” he agrees. “Just text me.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles is walking out of his study session with Lydia on Thursday when his phone buzzes in his hand, flashing up a new text.  
  
FROM: 1-510-555-2138  
I heard your competition thing  
is on Friday. So you’re free that  
night, right? ;)  
  
“No,” Stiles says out loud as he starts heading back to his dorm, ready to pass out. He sighs, shoulders dropping as he thinks about how to let him down gently before he just takes his dad’s advice.  
  
TO: 1-510-555-2138  
It’s not going to happen, dude.  
I’m hung up on a guy from my  
hometown. Sorry for leading you  
on or whatever, but that’s just  
the truth of the matter.  
  
He sends it off and pockets his phone, torn between hoping he doesn’t get a reply and hoping he gets some sort of text back as acknowledgement. Regardless, he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, wandering back to his dorm.  
  
When he gets back, Scott waves at him absently, still working on something on his laptop, headphones on as he works diligently. Stiles puts his backpack down and throws his jeans onto the floor in a clump, too tired to do much else but climb into his bunk and plug his phone in, letting Scott’s typing lull him to sleep.  
  
—  
  
Stiles wakes up at 7:30AM on Friday, making Scott moan pitifully from his bottom bunk.  
  
“I went to bed at four,” he mumbles without even opening his eyes. “Turn off your goddamn alarm, dude.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” Stiles replies, reaching for his phone and swiping it open to make it shut up.  
  
He checks his phone while he brushes his teeth in the shared bathroom, seeing a message from Lydia in all caps as a reminder of where he needs to be, but nothing from Parrish beyond the read receipt under his blue bubble from last night.  
  
—  
  
“Do not bother me for the next sixteen hours unless it’s a life or death situation,” Stiles tells Scott. “I need to catch up on so much sleep.”  
  
Scott makes a face at him. “Do you want me to go the library?” He asks.  
  
“No,” Stiles answers, just falling onto Scott’s bed and laying there face down in the comforter. “I just want to not exist for a couple hours.”  
  
“Okay, buddy,” Scott laughs. “You want me to wake you up for dinner at least?”  
  
Stiles makes a noise and just pulls the closest pillow under his head.  
  
—  
  
Caitlin slides into the booth across from him, thunking her textbook onto the formica tabletop. "I made flashcards for all the monarchs and the things they were known for,” she announces proudly as she starts unzipping her backpack.  
  
“Cool,” Stiles says, spinning his laptop around so she can see the screen. “I typed up a timeline with a quick summary over the major things between our last test and final.”  
  
“Holy shit,” she says, glancing over it.  
  
“I’ve been up since five because I went to bed super early,” Stiles tells her. “I wanted to be productive, so.”  
  
“Awesome,” Caitlin laughs. “Okay, so, Battle of Fodden Field,” she begins, tapping her stack of index cards.  
  
—  
  
“I’ve got another study group to go to at five,” Caitlin tells Stiles around 1PM after he orders another plate of fries.  
  
“No problem,” Stiles shrugs. “We’ve at least narrowed down what our problem places are and filled in the gaps in our notes.”  
  
“Yeah,” she agrees, drinking the rest of her lemonade. “I just need to remember the Act of Uniformity.”  
  
“I remember it by Marlowe,” he says. “He was an Elizabethan spy that became a Catholic so he could rat people out.”  
  
Caitlin’s brow rises dubiously at him. “Who the fuck’s Marlowe?” She asks.  
  
“He was a playwright,” Stiles answers. “He wrote _Doctor Faustus_.”  
  
She hums, still not convinced. “Whatever, dude,” she dismisses. “As long as it helps you.”  
  
—  
  
Stiles comes back to the dorm, ready to start on his Anthropology review, but runs into Scott as he’s heading out.  
  
“Hey, dude,” Stiles greets, shuffling out of Scott’s way so he can get into the hall. “What’s up?”  
  
“I’m going to see Allison,” Scott explains. “She’s going to France for the summer with her family, so I’ve gotta—“  
  
Stiles waves him off. “No need to say more,” he says. “Godspeed, friend.”  
  
Scott grins, holding his fist out for a bump. “I’ll see you Monday,” he promises and turns to leave.  
  
—  
  
Sunday morning, Stiles is startled awake by a harsh pounding on his dorm room door.  
  
“Hold on,” he shouts, stumbling down from his bunk and hopping to regain his balance as he throws the door open. “Lydia?” Stiles asks drowsily. “Jesus Christ, I thought you were campus police.”  
  
He leaves the door open as he wanders back into the room so he can find some pants.  
  
Lydia hums, following him, and looking for all the world like she does not want to touch any surface as she surveys the area. She steps around a dirty shirt and pulls the desk chair out, perching herself on it as she waits for him.  
  
“What can I do for you?” Stiles asks, sitting across her on Scott’s bed.  
  
“I’m repaying your favor, and helping you,” Lydia says, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she ignores the confused look Stiles is giving her. “You need to talk to him.”  
  
“What?” He asks, voice hollow.  
  
“You need to talk to Derek,” she reiterates.  
  
Stiles frowns, ducking his head to avert his gaze. “I think I just need to leave him alone,” he mutters. “He probably wants nothing to do with me.”  
  
“How do you know?” Lydia demands. “You ran away, you didn’t talk to him, and basically ignored his existence.” She leans back in her seat, sighing at him. “You have no closure.”  
  
“So?” Stiles defends, shrinking in on himself. “You’re the one that shoved me at other people, telling me to get over it.”  
  
“Because I thought you got thrown out of his apartment or rejected,” Lydia says, nudging her pointed black Pigalle into his shin so he looks at her. “I was trying to help you cope the way I do.”  
  
“Well, it didn’t work,” Stiles grumbles, back to hiding from her gaze.  
  
“Look,” she sighs. “It’s almost summer, and you’re both from the same little town.”  
  
Stiles stays silent, waiting for her to continue. “And?” He prompts quietly.  
  
Lydia rolls her eyes at him. “ _And_ you shouldn’t have to spend your summer break avoiding someone that you want to date but didn’t have the guts to do anything about it,” she says. “You need to talk to him,” she repeats.  
  
Stiles’ shoulders slump as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I know,” he breathes. “I know I do. But, shit, what if he doesn’t want to talk to me?”  
  
Lydia shrugs. “Then that’s his right,” she replies. “The least you can do is apologize for fucking up.” She stands, brushing her skirt down. “And if need be, I’ll be there with low-fat Greek froyo.”  
  
“Thanks, Lyds,” Stiles says, watching her leave.  
  
—  
  
Stiles walks to Derek’s apartment building on Monday, trying to hype himself up to face him.  
  
Seeing the call box by the front door makes him stop, considering if he should press for apartment 4B or hope for someone to come by and assume he forgot his key.  
  
Even though he still has Derek’s number, Stiles doesn’t want to call because he knows he’ll be ignored.  
  
“God fucking dammit,” he sighs, looking up to the brick façade before remembers that he has Erica’s number, too.  
  
He pulls his phone out, tapping to his contacts and pulling up her contact info and pressing to call her.  
  
The line rings before it clicks over and she answers with a furious: “What?”  
  
“Are you home right now?” Stiles asks, wincing.  
  
“Considering I have an eighteen page research paper due tomorrow,” Erica starts. “Yeah, I’d say I’m home right now.”  
  
“I’m sorry, this will only take a second,” Stiles says. “But can you buzz me into your building?”  
  
“Why?” Erica demands immediately, sounding like she’s not going to do it for him.  
  
“Because I want to talk to Derek,” Stiles replies on a mumble, staring pensively at his shoes.  
  
The sound of a chair sliding across the floor screeches over the speaker. “Why now?” Erica asks. “Why didn’t you talk to him ten weeks ago?”  
  
“I fucked up,” Stiles answers truthfully. “I ran away and he doesn’t deserve that and I just—I want to say I’m sorry face to face, can you please buzz me in?”  
  
Erica sighs, angry footsteps following in its wake. “If you make that boy look like someone pissed in his cheerios again, I will come for your fucking balls,” she hisses right before the call box rings its ugly, dull note and Stiles has to rush to pull the door open.  
  
“Thank you,” he says. “Really, thank you.”  
  
“Uh-huh, sure,” Erica drawls sarcastically and then hangs up on him.  
  
—  
  
Derek’s apartment’s empty, as far as Stiles can tell. He knocked on the door after he got out from the building’s elevator, checking around covertly, making sure the hall’s empty before he leant in and put his ear to the wood to listen for sounds inside the apartment.  
  
Stiles doesn’t want to have to beg Erica to let him into the building again, so with a sigh he hunkers down and sits in front of Derek’s door, waiting for him to come back. He unzips his hoodie and shoves it under his ass, pulling his phone out to read HuffPo until Derek gets in.  
  
—  
  
“What are you doing?” A rough voice asks, hours later after Stiles’ phone’s died and he’d just slumped against the door and closed his eyes and attempted a nap. His eyes blink open to see Derek, backpack hoisted on his shoulders and a takeout bag from Gordo Taqueria. “How’d you even get in here?”  
  
“Erica,” Stiles answers and Derek’s face shutters closed as he nods in resentful acceptance. “Can we talk?” He asks, levering himself up to stand on his coltish, unused legs.  
  
Derek’s frown deepens. “Are you holding my apartment hostage?” He asks, staring past Stiles’ shoulder to the door behind him.  
  
“No,” Stiles answers, side-stepping immediately. “I just want to apologize to you.”  
  
“Why?” Derek demands on a growl as he viciously shoves his key into the lock. “You could have tried talking to me any time after, why’d you choose now?”  
  
Stiles makes a wounded sound. “Because I’m an asshole,” he answers.  
  
“Yeah, you are,” Derek agrees when he pushes the door open. “Thanks for confirming that further.”  
  
“Derek, please,” Stiles entreats, taking a step forward to follow Derek in.  
  
“Apologize,” he commands, hand still on the knob. “So you can leave and I can eat my dinner.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. “I’m remarkably shitty and you don’t deserve that from me, or anyone, really.”  
  
Derek nods in acceptance and walks into his apartment, ready to leave Stiles in the hall. “Thanks,” he says monotonously. “See you around, Stiles.”  
  
“Wait,” Stiles interrupts, knocking his forearm into the wood of Derek’s door.  
  
He sighs, opening the door again to tiredly look at Stiles. “What?” Derek demands. “What more could you possibly want to say to me?”  
  
“I just—I want more,” Stiles answers and that makes Derek stop.  
  
“What the fuck do you mean _you want more_?” He asks. “You’re the one who left and put that Bukowski thing in the back of your notebook: “Don’t phone, don’t write, _don’t arrive._ ””  
  
A pipe creaks over their head from someone starting up their shower, high-pitched and squeaking before it mellows out into the sound of running water, reminding both of them that there are other people around and that the walls aren’t the thickest.  
  
“Please,” Stiles says, jerking his chin toward the threshold in silent questioning. “Let me in?”  
  
Derek sighs through his nose, shoulders sagging minutely before he turns to walk further into his living room, leaving the door open for Stiles to tentatively follow him as he sets his food and backpack down on the dining table.  
  
Stiles kicks the door closed behind him, letting Derek settle in as he looks to the cardboard boxes that are open around the bookshelf and packed full of old textbooks and anthologies of Spanish history, the small, personal knick-knacks packed up along with them.  
  
“I preemptively kicked myself out,” he admits quietly, watching as Derek unpacks a binder and stack of textbooks. “I thought you were going to say “Oh, you’re _still_ here?” when you came out of the shower,” Stiles explains. “So I left before you could.”  
  
Derek grunts, cocking his hip against the wood of the table as he crosses his arms over the barrel of his chest. “I’ve never kicked you out of my place before,” he says. “Not even when you fell asleep on my couch and I had to leave for my night class.”  
  
Stiles nods, ducking his head as if chastised. “I know,” he murmurs. “I don’t know, it’s just that—I did not retain the kind of information necessary to stand in your presence and figure remainders,” he quotes. “I was afraid of getting hurt.”  
  
“That’s not an excuse to hurt other people,” Derek tells him.  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, shoulders dropping as the fight goes out of him. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “And I understand that you’re upset or angry or hurt, because I was remarkably shitty and selfish.”  
  
“Why did you think I was going to kick you out?” Derek asks, still posted at the table as he watches Stiles. “If I didn’t want it to happen, I would have taken the out you gave me before we fucked.”  
  
Stiles shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I just thought you were going to regret it and tell me it only happened because we were drunk and high.”  
  
“I don’t get drunk off of an eighth of vodka,” Derek dismisses.  
  
Stiles sighs. “Yeah, well,” he tries, waving his hand vaguely.  
  
“You’re the only person I stopped charging,” he admits. “I don’t do that for anyone else.” Derek’s hands drop to the tabletop as he stares at Stiles, mouth pressed into a line. “How do I know that you’re not here because you want that?”  
  
Stiles is shaking his head before Derek even finishes talking. “I haven’t smoked since I last saw you,” he says. “I don’t want to avoid you the rest of my life wondering what could have happened if I didn’t get out of that bed.”  
  
“Nothing’s going to answer that for you,” Derek murmurs quietly. “You left.”  
  
“Yeah, but,” Stiles tries. “It doesn’t have to end there. I’m here now because I want more.”  
  
Derek frowns at him, standing to his full height. “What’s your definition of “more?”” He asks.  
  
“I want you,” Stiles answers earnestly, walking into his space, eyes fixed on Derek’s face. “In any way, if you want me back.”  
  
“And if I don’t?” Derek questions, seeing Stiles shrink back at the hint of rejection.  
  
“Then that’s your right,” Stiles answers. “I won’t push you for more if that’s what you want.”  
  
He nods and reaches out, tentatively clutching on to the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “But if I do? Date you?” Derek asks, gently nudging Stiles closer.  
  
Stiles shudders out a sigh, nodding. “Yeah,” he confirms. “I want to date you.”  
  
“Okay,” Derek agrees. “We can try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to [Julie](http://writingcalmsthemind.tumblr.com/) for being my beta.
> 
> Normally I do not request that people comment, but as I have spent so much time and suffered so much frustration at the hands of this fic, if you enjoyed it I would whole-heartedly appreciate if you told me.
> 
> But, as always, my tumblr's [here](http://pacificrimmers.tumblr.com/) if you want to yell at me.


End file.
